Horst nodded. "I am a carpenter, not detektiv. I could only drive around and around, searching. For months I did this. Then, I finally found them, the one with the scar and the short one. I followed them for a week to make sure they were the right people. A lot of nights they went to a house. I wanted to kill them. I would kill them. The night I planned it, I drank a lot of alcohol, and I went to the house. I parked many houses away, so they would not see my car. I left my car and started to the house, but as I got near, the short man exited the house."
"Lewis Farmer had killed the other American," Irene said. "Put a gun to his head and forced him to bite down on a cyanide pill he had in his mouth. Tell me, Horst, why didn't you go into the house after he left?"
Horst looked at the table, angry and frustrated. "I was about to, seeing my chance to kill them one at a time, separately. As I went to cross the street, I saw polizei coming down the walkway. The polizei saw the light in the house and started toward it. I could not go through with my plan. So, I went back to my car, all the way down the street.”
"You were the drunk man that Constable Drebber saw," Irene said.
"On my way to my car," Horst said. "I saw the short man, the rat. He was coming back. I gave chase but the alcohol was too strong and I lost him.”
"Why would he come back?" Lestrade asked. Horst shrugged.
"For the pin," Irene said. "The jump wings with the etchings. He should've taken it with him when he left, but he was still in shock after forcing his companion to kill himself. Whether because they were brothers in arms, or something more, I am not sure, but in his distress and hurry to leave, he also left the lamplight on."
"I found him a few days later," Horst said. "And my anger had grown. I walked into his house and...and...ich tötete ihn."
"He killed him," Joe said, stomach churning. He despised the German his mind could recall. Irene's hand in his helped, but he worried that he'd turn her skin damp with the nervous sweat coming from his palms. She didn't seem to notice, though.
"But why," Lestrade said. "Did you continue to hunt him down, after one of them was dead and clearly there was something sinister going on with them?"
He hesitated, and Irene answered for him.
"Because," she said. "You'd spent more time at the brothel, with Miriam. She resembles your daughter so strongly. Sitting with her brought back memories of your daughter and that fuelled your anger and resolve."
"They took her from me," he said, tears in his eyes. "The people who were supposed to save us from that evil man. My wife was already dead because she refused to bow, and these people took what was left in my life, my daughter, to use her talents. Then they killed her like an animal when she fought back."
Joe's stomach did another flip, and his chest tightened. He couldn't have an episode, not here, not in front of everyone.
Horst had worked himself up again, and Gregory and Lestrade tried to calm him, talking over his angry rambles and sobs.
Joe gripped Irene's fingers tighter.
"We're almost done," she whispered to him. "Do you want to leave?"
He shook his head and took a deep breath, trying to relax his chest.
Horst had calmed down, and Irene cleared her throat to call attention back to her.
"I believe," she said. "That you are not a danger any more, but unfortunately you did murder someone, regardless of how terrible a person they were."
The two detectives decided to place him in a separate cell until an arrangement could get underway. Gregory offered to lock him up, grabbing Horst's arm.
"Careful, Thom," Irene said. "This was not the enemy you fought."
Joe held his breath, waiting for Gregory's rude reply, but he just nodded and walked Horst passively out of the room. Joe understood where Gregory's anger came from. He felt it too, in the pit of his stomach. The hatred for an entire country because of a select group of people. But he empathised with Horst. Joe remembered passing through small villages and seeing men, woman, and children victims of the horrific violence.
"You think he's still a danger?" Lestrade asked.
Irene gave Joe's fingers a final squeeze, then took her hand back and stood. "No. He has nothing left to kill for."
Joe stood as well, collecting the first aid kit, exhaustion hitting him like falling bricks. "He's got nothing left to live for, either."
"We all lost people we care about in that damn war," Irene said, voice dark and sullen. "He was able to put the blame directly on the people responsible for his loss. We can't all be so lucky. Come on, Joe. We need to sit by the fire and enjoy a good meal from Miss Hudson."
She started to leave, but Lestrade called to her.
"This was a good case, Irene," he said. "Your father would be proud."
She stopped at the door and looked at him from under the brim of her hat. "This was an intriguing case, Eddy, not a good one."
"Either way," Lestrade said. "He'd be proud."
She gave a small nod and left the room.
Lestrade looked as exhausted as Joe felt. He'd almost forgotten that the two Detective Inspectors were conducting their own research, and running around town like he and Irene had done.
"Sometimes," Lestrade said. "I feel guilty for not serving alongside you, Joe, but then I see people and cases like this and I count myself selfishly lucky. It was not all peaches and cream here, but honestly, I don't think I would've survived out there."
"Most people are stronger than they think," Joe said. "I surprised myself in that way, but I would not do it again for all the luxuries this world has to offer."
"Good day, Doctor." Lestrade held out his hand. "See you tomorrow for the parade."
"Good day." Joe shook the detective's hand, then left the room. Irene leaned against the wall, waiting for him. She pushed herself off, and the two of them walked down the hall.
"I am tired, Joe," she said.
"Taking a fist to the face can do that," he said.
She gave a small chuckle and linked her bandaged arm through his as they left the station.
Chapter XIII
Victory Red
Irene pulled her knees to her chest and tossed the letter she was reading on the table. The morning sun shone through the window, and she was tempted to draw the curtain. She didn't need any sun right now, and the rays hit her as if forcing happiness upon her. People flocked through the streets, heading to the park, lining the roads for the Victory Parade, and their chattering drifted through the flat.
Joe entered the living room and sat in his armchair with a hot cup of tea. "How's your head today?"
"Fine." She sunk lower into the couch.
"Irene..."
"Hurts," she scowled.
"Did you take the pain pills I left for you?"
"Ten minutes ago."
"Give them more time to work-"
"Horst Müller hanged himself in his cell last night." She poked the letter with her slippered foot. "A report sent by Eddy, written by the constable who found him this morning."
Joe set his tea down and grabbed the paper.
"No one at the station seems to care," Irene said. "As far as they're concerned, the case is closed and that's one less trial to conduct."
Joe read the report, then folded the letter and set it back on the table.
"I'm sorry, Irene," he said. "This case has certainly had a few unfortunate turns."
He took his tea up and sipped, his own thoughts swimming in his head.
"It's like you said." Irene wrapped her still bandaged arm around her knees. "He had nothing left to live for."
While murder was indeed wrong, Irene understood why Horst wanted to kill those two people. They were directly responsible for the death of his daughter. What she wouldn't give to meet the person responsible for launching that buzz bomb two years ago, but that was impossible.
She sighed and wiggled even lower on the couch, slamming the door on those thoughts and that particular memory.
She allowed herself another
minute of sadness and self-pity before stretching out her entire body. She stood, her face still throbbing if she moved too quickly.
"This woman is the only thing that vexes me," she said.
Joe's cheeks reddened. "I must apologize for the conversation we had after that lady drove away. I was frustrated and haunted by old memories."
"It's in the past, my dear man," she said, her own cheeks turning pink. "We can't expect to live and work together without some kind of row every now and then. Not until we learn each other's hot buttons and can navigate our way through sensitive conversations."
"Clearly that pin wasn't her husband's." Joe straightened in his chair, furrowing his brow, getting back to business.
"I agree." Irene paced the floor. "She was the correct height to write that message in lipstick and she was desperate enough for that pin to show herself to us. She had bags in the back of the cab as if leaving for a trip."
"It must be the same tall lady that Horst spoke of," Joe said. "Could it be the same one that tried to tempt the lance corporal from Gregory's story, though? It would connect her, and the lipstick, to this whole scenario."
"Make-up was severely frowned upon," Irene said.
"Exactly," Joe said. "Wasn't Victory Red made specifically to send a message to the Nazis?"
"If this group of people started during the war," Irene said, perching on the couch, echoing Joe's thoughts. "And were originally collecting skilled individuals for the Nazis, what would they do once the war ended? Perhaps they moved on to other crimes, using the people they had recruited to aid them. That makes the message of 'traitor', written in a forbidden colour, even more poignant. If this American, Alan Jacobs, realized he'd made a terrible mistake and didn't want to pursue a life of crime, then this group would not be pleased. I very much regret giving that pin back to the woman. We shall keep our eyes and ears open and continue trying to decipher that code on the back."
Joe nodded and retreated inward, finishing his tea, ending the conversation. But Irene needed to know more.
"Do you know anything about them?" she asked. "You mentioned German agents, did you meet anyone who could've been part of this group?"
Joe shrugged and slowly turned the cup on the saucer. Irene was about to ask again when she remembered the way he'd reacted during the interview when Horst described what happened to his daughter.
"There are people out there," he said. "Who wholeheartedly believed in what was happening. They had convinced themselves to see others as non-humans, lower than animals. It would not surprise me if there were people still adhering to those dark beliefs. As for recruiting out of POW camps? The horrors of those camps would make a lot of people want to cooperate and leave. If someone had a special talent, even better. This woman's offer, depending on what she promised, and how convincing she was, the temptation to leave that hell, whether it was a concentration camp or a military company that found themselves constantly on the front lines, would appeal to many, I am sure."
He clenched his jaw and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Irene knew she'd pushed him too far.
Her own desire to solve another mystery got the better of her, over-shadowing her friend's feelings. Guilt nagged at her, so she changed the subject.
"Joe," she said. "Let's drop this conversation. We'll revisit this mystery another time because I know this is just the tip of the iceberg, where this mischief is concerned. Today, however, is a day of celebration. "
"Thank you," he said, shoulders relaxing, relief visibly washing over him.
Miss Hudson came in with breakfast. "Hurry up and eat, you two. Edward will be here any minute to collect us. Do you want flags to wave?"
"We're more than alright, Miss Hudson," Irene said, sitting down to her plate of eggs. Miss Hudson left, singing some old war ditty. They ate in silence for the first part of the meal, and Irene felt the excitement outside growing. The crowds getting louder and more rambunctious, the parade a little more than an hour away.
"Was your father a detective?" Joe asked.
Irene nearly choked on her egg, sputtering out her words. "I beg your pardon?"
"Lestrade mentioned your father being proud," he said. "And I've picked up other things here and there about him. Was he a detective in the service?"
Irene shook her head. "He was just an astute and clever man."
"Could he do the things that you do?" Joe asked. "Reading people and solving cases? Did you inherit that from him?"
"Yes," she said.
"What about your mother?" Joe asked. "She a clever one, too?"
"I never knew my mother," Irene said, words clipped and terse. "She left me with my father right after I was born."
Joe nodded, taking her hint, and continued his breakfast. Irene sipped her juice and sighed. She'd avoided telling people her last name as much as possible, lest people recognize her father's name and inundate her with questions about her family. With all the reading Joe did, it was a wonder he hadn't come across her father's stories and put two and two together. But he was bound to find the stories eventually, now that everyone had time to sit and read again.
Joe didn't seem the type to reveal her secret to everyone anyway, and the poor man did deserve to know why everyone reacted in various ways whenever he introduced himself as 'Doctor Watson'.
Irene scraped her plate, scooping every last piece of food on her fork. She took a gulp of juice, surprised at how difficult it was to tell him even one simple thing. She set her glass down on the table harder than she meant to.
"My father was Sherlock Holmes," she said before she could second-guess herself. "And his best friend was my uncle, Doctor John Watson. Together, they wrote books about my father's cases and published them."
At first, Joe didn't react, then the name sunk in, and he furrowed his brow.
"Sherlock Holmes?" He set his fork down. "That name sounds... Oh, my God. The detective? All the stories from the papers... Holmes and Watson, of course!"
He blinked at her, a grin spreading across his face as if suddenly discovering a fantastic and secret world.
"This now makes so much sense," he said. "No wonder you can dissect everything with such clarity and detail. You had the best teacher in the world. I've only read one Holmes story, many years ago, when I was just a boy. But the books have been on my list for quite some time. Then the war happened, but the stories never left my list. I am quite excited to read them."
As he spoke, each word ignited panic and grave misgivings in Irene. This was a mistake. She shouldn't have told him. He'd collect the stories, and she'd have to see her father's name over and over again on the shelf. Joe would ask her questions about her family, questions she didn't want to answer. Not now, not ever.
A tremor snaked through her left hand, hitting the fork, clinking it against the plate.
She waited for more words, but Joe was silent.
"Irene?" he said, leaning forward, looking her in the eye. His voice was soft and gentle as he spoke. "Is that why you baulked at my name the first time we met?"
She nodded, a lump in her throat. "Forgive me for that. I may have trouble with your last name for a while yet. You see, my uncle is...no longer with us."
She didn't know how to further explain without telling her whole story. She felt childish and angry all at once. She wanted to bury her face under her pillow, scream, and forget about everything at the same time.
Today was supposed to be a good day, not a day for revelations and...feelings.
Joe reached over and took her hand, holding it tight, as another tremor shook her fist.
"Then we shall carry on as we have been," he said. "I will be Joe and you will be Irene."
She nodded, looking into his eyes, as blue as a clear country sky.
"I suppose," she said. "We both have stories we're not ready to tell."
He gave her a crooked smile, patting their intertwined fingers with his other hand.
"Fortunately," he said. "We've nothing but time, dearheart."<
br />
He stood and collected the dishes, as she watched.
Perhaps this man did understand painful pasts and horrible secrets. His expression and demeanour toward her were so kind, so loyal...like a friend.
Could she have possibly made a friend? She didn't have many, and Eddy didn't count because he was practically family and had no choice.
She sat back in the chair and a smile danced on her lips.
Irene Holmes made a friend all on her own. Sure, their friendship was based on necessity and odd personalities, but a friend was a friend.
Her father and uncle would be so proud.
Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs, and the door burst open.
Eddy bounded in with a huge grin on his face. When he saw that neither Joe nor Irene were ready to walk out the door, he waved his arms around excitedly.
"Let's go," he said. "Or else we won't get a spot."
Irene left the men in the kitchen and headed to her bedroom. Despite her displeasure with the sun earlier, she was excited about this parade. She was never a fan of crowds, but a celebration full of happy people was what she needed after the week's events. She tugged on her favourite blue fedora, then applied the Victory Red lipstick.
She came back out, and Eddy grinned at her.
"A vision," he said. "All the other men shall be envious."
Joe entered the room, his jacket on, and Eddy whistled at him.
"And dear Joseph has even combed his hair."
Joe and Irene followed Eddy downstairs, and Miss Hudson stopped them before they reached the door. She clutched a fistful of tiny flags and handed one to each of them. As Irene took hers, Miss Hudson winked.
"Holmes and Watson, together again," she said. "Destiny, so it is."
"Thank you." Eddy waved his flag. "I've said that since day one, Miss Hudson."
Irene rolled her eyes at both of them, then pushed Eddy toward the door.
"Let's go," she said. "You were so eager before."
The street was as busy as it sounded from the flat. People laughing, singing, hurrying to the park, most of them waving their own tiny flags. Irene linked her arm in Joe's and realized her navy outfit matched his navy trousers and waistcoat as if they'd made a plan.
A Study in Victory Red Page 10