“I am Chief Inspector Torsen Heinz from the East Berlin sector.”
Eric turned and sighed. “Not another one…the police have already been here this morning, and last night there were more police than customers. What do you want?”
Torsen asked if there was some place they could talk privately. Eric led him into Magda’s office. It smelled of stale tobacco, as did the entire club. Eric perched himself on Magda’s cushions and Torsen sat on the chair opposite the untidy desk.
“I would like to talk with you, since you are taking over the clubs. We must try and stop prostitution from getting out of hand. I believe Magda controls the…”
“Did. I am her principal beneficiary, Inspector, I was her husband, so let’s get down to business—how much do you want?”
Torsen frowned. “I am issuing a warning, I am not here to be bribed, it is against the law. You were not attempting to…”
Eric screwed up his face, trying to recollect if he had ever seen this one with his hand out. He sat back and listened as Torsen said that four of his officers had been attacked and chased. Eric interrupted him.
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow, you say your men were chased?”
Torsen elaborated. His men had been chased by four men in a high-powered Mercedes; the license plate was being checked. He was there simply to warn the new management that he would not allow such things to continue.
Eric pretended to be greatly concerned, and agreed that he would personally look into the girls and the pimps he knew that were working in the West.
Torsen was about to leave when he remembered to offer his condolences. Eric murmured his thanks with downcast eyes, and then regaled Torsen with the details—how he had been sitting exactly where the inspector was when she keeled over…
“It was a strange night, there was this woman Magda insisted she knew, and the woman insisted she didn’t know her. I think it was this woman’s fault she had a heart attack, Magda really got agitated about her, screaming and carrying on, as only Magda could do ”
Torsen rose to his feet, hand outstretched. Eric jumped up.
“Ruda, that was her name…shot out of here, and Magda hit the roof, wanted her boys to grab her, you know the way Magda was, but I’d never seen that woman before.”
Torsen hesitated. “Ruda Kellerman?”
Eric shrugged. “Don’t ask me, but she put Magda in one hell of a mood…eh, I shouldn’t grumble—she’s dead, and I don’t mind telling you, telling anybody, I’ve waited a long time for that to happen.”
Eric continued talking as he led Torsen out of the club. Torsen headed up the stairs and back to his car.
Eric returned to the bar, and snapped his fingers at the barmaid.
“Get me Klaus, I need to know who we’ve got working over in the eastern sector, how many girls et cetera. Do you think this plum color would look good on the wall?”
Not waiting for a reply, he returned to the office to order the fabric. It was a coincidence that Torsen had been sitting barely two feet away from the carving knife which had sliced through Jeczawitz’s arm.
♦ ♦ ♦
Torsen waited as Lena put down the file disks for the rest of the J’s. She then handed him two more files on Kellerman.
“Thank you, this is very kind of you!”
She nodded, but walked out without saying a word. Torsen followed her with his eyes, and then turned his attention to the files. Perhaps she had had a bad morning.
Two hours later, his back aching from straining forward to see the screen, Torsen got lucky. He found the registration of the marriage license between Rudi Jeczawitz and a Ruda Braun. Stamped across Ruda’s name was no documentation available. She had signed her name with a strange childish scrawl.
He was even luckier with Thomas Kellerman and his wife, also Ruda Braun. He took copies of both licenses and matched the handwriting. Ruda Braun’s signature was identical to Ruda Jeczawitz’s. His heart was pounding in his chest as he looked from one document to the other. He gathered the papers to put them into his briefcase. As he did so, he realized his newspaper was tucked inside; he was about to throw it away when he looked again at the MAMA MAGDA DEAD. The first line of the article now leaped out at him. “Last night one of the most well-known women of West Berlin’s red light district, the infamous Magda Braun, know as Mama Magda…”
Torsen’s head was spinning thinking of all the coincidences as he made his way back to the station. He was sure he had enough evidence to interrupt his director’s holiday and ask for permission to arrange a warrant for the arrest of Ruda Kellerman.
As usual, the station was virtually empty, most of the officers having taken off for lunch. He had to wait five minutes before they opened the yard gates to let him drive in. Once in his office he began to lay out all the evidence he had accumulated to date. He had to make sure he didn’t commit any errors. Ruda Kellerman was now an American citizen—and a famous performer. This would be his first arrest for murder, he could not afford to make a mistake. He ran his fingers through his hair, flicked through his streams of notes, and then tapped with his pencil. He should have commandeered the boots. He still didn’t know if they were Grimaldi’s or Ruda’s, or if they were in this together. He swore, checked his watch; it was almost one o’clock. He needed to get a search warrant.
His phone rang, he snatched it up. It was the manager from the Grand Hotel, who wanted to discuss the nightly invasion of prostitutes outside the hotel entrance; they even walked into the foyer of the hotel! Torsen said he would send someone over straightaway. He was then caught up in endless phone calls: There were more burglaries from tourists’ cars than they could deal with, but the backlog of work would, Heinz knew, eventually be finished. The rabbi called, asking when he would be paid for Kellerman’s funeral. Torsen diverted the calls to the operator, and then told her that he had to go to the circus.
“Yes, I heard you and Rieckert have free tickets!”
“I’m going on business, I’ll be using the patrol car, contact me directly if need be. Have you got someone to take over from you?”
“We’ve got three candidates, but this is a very old board, you have to have experience…”
“I want someone on that switchboard day and night, is that understood?”
The receiver was slammed down and Torsen stared at his phone; he hadn’t had any lunch and it was already two o’clock. He picked up the rabbi’s bill; he would use it as an excuse to talk to Ruda Kellerman, and then ask if he could take the boots. If he waited around for a search warrant, it could take hours.
♦ ♦ ♦
Grimaldi was looking for Ruda, he’d not seen her since breakfast. She was late for feeding time; since she always fed the cats herself, he was worried that something had happened to her. When he saw the inspector making his way around the puddles, he hurried toward him. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, I was just coming to see you, or your wife. I have the bill for Kellerman’s funeral costs; you recall she said she would pay it.”
Grimaldi shrugged. “I don’t know where she is, but come on inside.”
Torsen stepped into the trailer, wiping his feet on the grid, noticing the boots weren’t there. He sat on the bench turning his cap around and around, as Grimaldi opened the rabbi’s envelope. He examined the bill briefly, and delved into his pockets. “I’ll pay you—cash all right?”
The inspector nodded. Grimaldi counted the notes, folded them, and handed them over. “Not much for a life, huh?”
Torsen opened his top pocket, asked if Grimaldi required a receipt. He shook his head, and then crossed to the window, lifting up the blind. “This isn’t like her, she’s never late for feeding, I wonder where the hell she has gone.”
Torsen tried to sound nonchalant, but he flushed. “Perhaps she went to Mama Magda’s funeral.”
Grimaldi stared. “Who the hell is she?”
Torsen explained, embarrassed at his attempt
to be a sly investigator. “She was a famous West Berlin madam; she died last night at her club, Mama’s…I believe your wife was there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She was at Mama Magda’s—I was told about nine, nine-thirty.”
“Bullshit! She was in the ring, we had a dress rehearsal. You got the wrong girl!”
Torsen pointed to the newspaper on the table. “It was in the papers this morning, Mama Magda…photograph.”
Grimaldi snatched the paper and opened it. “I’ve never heard of her, and why do you think Ruda was there?”
Grimaldi looked at the paper, but the article had been cut out. He said nothing, tossed the paper back onto the table.
Torsen was extremely nervous, the big man scared the life out of him. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”
Grimaldi sniffed, and rubbed his nose. “She’s never late!”
“Do you have a leather trilby, or a similar hat—a shiny black hat?”
Grimaldi turned. “Do I have a what?”
Torsen stuttered slightly as he repeated his question. Grimaldi shook his head. “No, I never wear a hat.”
“Does your wife?”
“What? Wear a hat? No, no.”
Torsen explained why he had asked, that the suspect in the Kellerman murder wore a shiny black hat. Possibly it was Keller-man’s own hat, worn as a disguise.
Grimaldi sat on the opposite bunk, his legs so long they almost touched Torsen’s feet. “So you think I had something to do with Kellerman’s death? Is that why you’re here?”
Torsen swallowed, wished he’d brought someone with him. “I am just following a line of inquiry…an unidentified man was seen leaving Kellerman’s hotel.”
Grimaldi nodded, his dark eyes boring into Torsen. “So why do you want to know if Ruda’s got a trilby?”
Torsen tugged at his tie. “Our witness could be mistaken. Perhaps the person leaving, er, the man with the hat, was in fact a woman.”
Grimaldi leaned forward and reached out to hold Torsen’s knee, His huge hand covered the entire knee, and he gripped tightly.
“You suspect Ruda? I told you, she was here with me all night, I told you that, and I don’t like these insinuations.”
Torsen waited until Grimaldi released his kneecap.
“We also have a good impression of a boot, or the heel of a boot. Would it be possible for me to…to check the…if I could look at your boots, and your wife’s boots?”
Grimaldi stood up, towering above Torsen. “The only boot you will see is mine—as it kicks your ass out of my trailer, understand? Get out! Out! Fuck off out of here!”
Torsen stood up, closed his notebook and stuffed it into his pocket. “I just need to check your boots for elimination purposes. If I am required to return with a warrant, then I shall do so.”
Grimaldi loomed closer, his voice quiet. “Get out…come back with your warrant and you’ll fucking eat it—get out.”
Torsen slipped down the steps as the door slammed shut so fast behind him it pushed him forward. He returned to his patrol car, his legs like jelly. Next time he would get a warrant, but he’d send Rieckert in for the boots.
♦ ♦ ♦
Grimaldi went over to the meat trailer. All the trays were ready, Mike and the other young hands were finishing the preparation of the meat. Grimaldi leaned against the chopping board. “She still not shown up?”
Mike said nobody had seen her, but the cats were getting hungry. Grimaldi glanced at his watch, said to leave it another half hour. Then he looked at Mike.
“Eh, where did you say you put my hat?”
Mike chopped away, not looking up. “Mrs. Grimaldi took it from me, I dunno know where it is.”
Grimaldi stood at the open door, cracked his knuckles. “You ever meet that little dwarf, the one that got murdered?”
Mike flushed slightly, because he knew that Mrs. Grimaldi had been married to that dwarf. He covered his embarrassment by carrying the trays out to the waiting trolley. “No, I never saw him.”
“I think I did,” said another voice.
Mike jumped down, not hearing the other young hand who was running water into buckets. Grimaldi turned, easing the door half closed.
“What did you say?”
The boy turned off the taps. “Day we arrived, I think it was him, I dunno, but he came in here, well, came to the steps, asked for Ruda, she was out by the cages.”
Grimaldi leaned on the chopping table. “You told anyone this?”
The boy started to fill another bucket. “Nope, nobody’s asked me!” He turned back to Grimaldi.
“I saw him later talking to Ruda, so I presumed she must have said he was hanging around here. Have they caught the bloke that did it, then?”
Grimaldi rubbed the boy’s shoulder with his hand. “Yeah, they got the bloke, so don’t open your mouth, we don’t want those fuckers nosing around here any more than they need to…okay?”
The boy nodded, and Grimaldi went out. “I’ll see if I can find that bloody woman.”
Grimaldi walked through the alley between the cages, and then he stopped. She had lied, Kellerman had not only been to the circus, but he had talked to her! He shrugged it off; maybe she just didn’t want anyone to know she had been married to him. He thought about the hat, and then his heart began to pound. He remembered seeing her in the meat trailer, the night of Kellerman’s murder…she had been covered in blood, it was all over her shirt and trousers. Shit! He remembered asking why she wasn’t wearing one of the rubber aprons…He stopped again, dear God, he had been so drunk that night he wouldn’t have known if she was in the trailer or not!
Grimaldi ran back, slammed the door behind him, and went into Ruda’s bedroom. He opened the wardrobe, searching for the shirt, trying to remember what clothes she had worn that night, but gave up, he couldn’t remember. He rubbed his head. What did that little prick want to check their boots for?
The sound was half moan, half sob, but low, quiet, it unnerved him. He looked around, heard it again. He inched open the small shower door; she was naked, curled up in the corner of the shower, her arms covering her head, as if she were hiding or burying herself.
“Oh, sweetheart…baby.”
He had to pry her arms away from her head, her face was stricken, terrified. She whispered, “No…please…no more, please no more…red, blue, red, red, red…blue, green…”
Grimaldi didn’t know what to do, she didn’t seem to recognize him, see him. Her voice was like a child’s. He couldn’t understand what she was saying. Some sort of list of colors, the plinths? Then he heard distinctly:
‘‘My sister, I want my sister, my sister, please…no more…”
He took a big bath towel, gently wrapped it around her, talked quietly, softly, but she refused to move. He tucked the towel around her and closed the door. The cats needed to eat if there was to be a show, their routine had to be maintained. He went back to the trolley, and for the first time in years he fed the cats. They were very suspicious, snarling and swiping at him, but they were hungry and the food was their priority…except for Mamon.
If Grimaldi even went near the bars, Mamon went crazy. He couldn’t get within arm’s length of the cage to throw in the meat. Grimaldi swore and cursed him, then got a pitchfork and shoved the meat through the bars. Mamon clawed at the fork, his jaws opened in a rage of growls and he lashed out with his paws. He didn’t want the meat, he never even went near it, but prowled up and down, up and down, until Grimaldi gave up trying and returned to the trailer.
She was in exactly the same position, curled up, hiding now beneath the bath towel. He knelt down, talked to her, keeping his voice low, encouraging her to come out. He was talking to her as if she were one of the cats. “Come on out, that’s a good girl, good girl, give me your hand…I’m not going to hurt you, that’s a good girl.”
Slowly, inch by in
ch she moved toward him, crawling, retracting, and he kept on talking, until she allowed him to put his arms around her. Then he carried her like a baby to the bed, held her in his arms and began to rock her gently backward and forward.
“It’s all right, I’m here…everything’s all right, I’m here.”
He wanted to weep, he had never seen her like this.
“Sister, I want my sssssister…”
She felt heavy in his arms as he continued to rock her, and then he eased the towel from her face; she was sleeping. He was afraid to put her down in case he woke her; he held her as he would the child he had always wanted, sat with her in his arms, and said it over and over.
“I love you, I love you, love you…”
Then he saw the box on her dressing table, saw beneath the old ribbon the newspaper clipping, “Angel of Death,” and he whispered, “Dear God, what did they do to you? What did they do to you, my baby?”
Chapter 17
Helen arrived at Dr. Franks’s apartment just as he was on his way out to see a patient. Helen asked if he could direct her to a library. He gave her a quizzical look when she told him what books she wanted to find. “My housekeeper will make you comfortable and bring you some coffee,” he said. “I think you will find what you want in my library.”
Helen was shown into Franks’s living room. The comfortably furnished room was dominated by bookshelves. Helen moved slowly along the shelves, neatly alphabetized, until she found what she had been looking for.
Helen turned the pages slowly, sickened by what she read. At Birkenau Josef Mengele had used shortwave rays in an experiment to deter the rapidity with which cancer cells reproduced. Plates were placed on the female victims’ abdomens and backs. The electricity was directed toward the ovaries, the doses were huge and the victims were seriously burned. Cancer invariably developed and subsequently the victims were sent to the gas chamber. The women suffered unspeakable agony as the shortwaves penetrated the lower abdomen. The bellies of the women and female children were then cut open, the uterus and ovaries removed to observe the lesions. Then the victims were left, with no medication or pain relief, to determine how long they would stay alive.
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