A Gypsy in Berlin

by DS Holmes

  “Before we get started,” Rutger punched an elevator button, “you might want to know that Hauptsturmfuehrer Ulbricht was here earlier. He’s on a fishing expedition and guess who is the fish?”

  Thomas caught a smirk from Helga as they entered the elevator. The cage rattled and shook on its way up to the second floor. At the far end of the hallway, Beck opened the door to a small office. A metal desk, two wooden chairs, a single file cabinet and a freestanding lamp were crammed inside. The lampshade was pale green glass, a color that matched the walls and linoleum floor.

  “The privileges of rank,” Helga noted. “Nice place.”

  “A converted closet,” Beck responded testily. “It’s just temporary quarters while my office is being renovated. There’s a break room across the hall next to the stairs, Frau Schmitt. Help yourself to coffee and pastry.”

  “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “Thomas is staying with you?” she asked skeptically.

  “The whole time.”

  She stood behind Thomas, considering her options. “Fine then. After all, if you can’t trust the police—’’

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Beck said.

  The click of her heels marked her progress while a typewriter clacked noisily in the next office. A man with a deep baritone cursed loudly, telephones rang and the door slammed shut. Another day of fair-minded justice in Berlin, Thomas thought, and sat down. The small room smelled of cleaning solution, and there was also the lingering odor of stale cigarette butts, an aroma easily traced to a full ashtray on Beck’s disorganized desk.

  Beck switched on the lamp, slid open the file cabinet, took out a form and, after fixing it to a clipboard, handed it across the desk. “Start writing. Details. As a journalist you know all about what, where, when and how.”

  “Not the why?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “Tape the pen to my right hand.”

  “Are those thick bandages absolutely necessary?” he said, and secured a fountain pen to the gauze.

  “A doctor thought so.”

  “I heard about Tauben. It’s a damn shame.”

  Thomas crossed his left leg over the right, balanced the clipboard on his knee. “Another dead Jew, another victory for our Third Reich.”

  “Even in the regular police we have informers,” he got up and closed the door, “so watch what you say in this building.”

  Thomas pointed the pen at the door. “Great, now I can speak freely. Fuck the Nazis.”

  Beck sighed. “Thomas, Thomas, how will you survive the war?”

  “What really worries me is if the regime survives.”

  “Since our Fuehrer sent the Wehrmacht to fight the Red Army in the snow and mud of winter, I’m no longer sure our great leader cares about victory. But, no more of this talk.” Beck lit a Belomor. “Just write, that’s what you’re good at.”

  Thomas recalled the incident in Kreuzberg, the meeting with Gerda Schacht and the ambush near the bar. When the skin under his neck bandage started to itch he resisted the urge to scratch it. Several minutes later he laid the clipboard on the desk, using his teeth to loosen the pen from the gauze. “Light me a cigarette, stick it in my mouth.”

  After lighting the Russian cigarette for his friend, Beck read over the statement. “So you were just strolling down Dresdenerstrasse when a Horch drove by and opened fire on you and your Adler Autobahn-driving friend with one of John Thompson’s automatic weapons. That’s almost believable, considering your weekend of strangling, drownings, shootings and bombings in the capital.” The investigator scratched his nose. “Sure you’re still not a crime reporter?”

  “Some people think I am,” Thomas said and inhaled. Suddenly he went into a violent fit of coughing. The burning cigarette fell on his lap.

  Beck leaned across the desk, lifted the cigarette and dropped it on top of the pile in the ashtray. “Where’s the beginning for this statement? Every story has a beginning, middle and end, right?”

  Thomas focused on a water stain on the wall behind the desk. It seemed to grow larger by the second.

  “What led you to that district?” Beck persisted.

  “I was visiting one of Johnny Flowers’ whores. Not for pleasure. Flowers had mentioned she worked the banks of the Spree.”

  “So you decided to play detective.”

  “Where’s Ingrid?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Are you interrogating her?”

  Beck opened a desk drawer, dropped the clipboard inside. “You are confusing Kripo methods with state security’s. Here, we question people, not interrogate them. There is a difference.”

  “Got it.”

  “I think your girlfriend was in the park Friday, close enough to see the killers.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  “Why not?” Beck replied, and took a black wool overcoat and fedora off a peg on the wall. “Take these along when you leave or you’ll catch pneumonia.”

  Thomas rose, tucked the clothing under his left arm. “I’ll return the coat soon. Mine’s in Helga’s car. The hat I will hang on to indefinitely, if you don’t mind.”

  Chapter 18

  THE ELEVATOR ROSE TO the third floor. Beck led the way into a room facing onto the Friedrichswerdersche church on the north side of the Markt. “You’ll notice we don’t confine witnesses to the basement.”

  “At Charité I didn’t get a chance to see how Wolf Hinsel is doing.”

  “Ask your buddy, Ulbricht. He had Hinsel moved to the hospital wing at Sachsenhausen.”

  “Why?” Thomas exclaimed.

  “Obviously, to apply pressure on you.”

  “He’s charged with what crime?”

  Beck stood close, lowered his voice. “The Gestapo can make it up as they go along, anything to rattle you. You’re a very important guy now, Thomas. General Heydrich must have big plans for you.”

  “I’m working on that angle.”

  “Yeah? You show up with Helga Schmitt. Picture yourself being sucked into a maelstrom with no way out.” Beck shrugged helplessly. “I wish I could help you.”

  “I know,” Thomas said softly. “What about Ingrid?”

  Beck pointed to a small rectangluar window set in the opposite wall at eye level, next to a door.

  Thomas hooked the coat and hat on a peg on the hallway door, crossed the room, opened the blinds over the window and peered through the glass. She was sitting at an empty table that was bolted to the floor, as was her chair. Behind her stood a policewoman, looking bored. The only light in the windowless room came from a pair of bare bulbs in ceiling sockets, protected by wire mesh. Gone was Ingrid’s once-defiant posture. Her mouth was firmly shut. She blinked her eyes over and over. “One-way glass?”

  “Only the latest in technology for the Kriminalpolizei,” the investigator said scornfully. “Our budget receives careful attention before it is pared down to a pre-war level by what your American friends call ‘bean counters.’”

  “Maybe there is something you can do for me.”

  “Like digging a deeper hole for yourself?”

  Thomas stepped aside from the observation window, gazed through a sleet-streaked window at the church’s twin towers. “What’s the name of that Sturmbannfuehrer we spotted in the river?”

  “What you’re asking about now isn’t just police business, it’s national security. A too-curious cop won’t only risk losing his job, he might end up that river, too.”

  “Come on, Rutger, at least give me something I can work with.”

  “Perhaps I can reveal enough to convince you to keep a distance.” Out came the pack of Belomors. “Thursday night a boathouse on the Grosser Wannsee was broken into, a motorboat stolen. The owner described it as a runabout built by Chris-Craft. Sound familiar?” Beck fired up his cigarette, took his time inhaling. As the smoke escaped his mouth, he said, “The boat’s numbers match those of the one
that ploughed through the river and into the embankment below the Marstall.”

  Thomas said, “Only a big shot in the Party or a rich industrialist can afford to purchase and maintain an American-made boat, with permanent, enclosed moorage on the lake.”

  “The theft was reported by someone named Heinrich Himmler.” Beck paused for effect. “So then, is Himmler a big enough shot for you?”

  “Gott im Himmel.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But the Reichfuehrer is not a sailor.”

  “The small craft was strictly for prestige, a toy for loaning out to favored underlings.”

  “Such as the Sturmbannfuehrer.”

  “Good guess.”

  Thomas rested his bandaged hands on the windowsill and stared through dirt and ice crystals. Below, the church appeared lifeless. Maybe Tauben was right. Mabe God has forgotten us. And who can blame Him? He turned to his friend. “You’re not going to believe this, Rutger. I was in Potsdam yesterday, at the Park Sanssouci.”

  Beck looked for an ashtray and, finding none, tapped ash into a cupped hand. “I heard about the dead body in our morning report. At this point, no names, other than the victim’s, have been connected to it. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  Leaving out the ride with Eva Braun and her visit to a fortuneteller, he said, “He was stalking Ingrid. Shot and wounded her before I could interrupt him. Then he fell forward, cracked his head open.”

  “Oh, that’ll sound real convincing in court.” Beck rolled his eyes. “The guy fails to complete his mission, so he pulls a headbanger and kills himself. Sure you didn’t give him a little push from behind?”

  “Flick, his name was Oswald Flick.”

  “And, of course, you didn’t notify Potsdam police.”

  “How could I? Flick carried Gestapo ID.”

  Beck shook his head. “Not Gestapo, SD. The ID was counterfeit, meant to confuse. He belonged to the same special unit your minder is attached to, agents who are answerable directly to Reinhard Heydrich.”

  It took one long second before the meaning of those words hit Thomas. Then he slumped against the window ledge, breathing hard. “Heydrich will never leave me alone, no matter what I do for him.”

  “Nacht und Nebel Erlass.” The inspector ground out his cigarette on the window pane. “Into the Night and Fog for you, Thomas. Barring a miracle, that is your future in the Third Reich. My God, you’re not in the deepest hole in Germany, you’re in the anteroom of Hell.”

  “The past few days have been very strange.” Thomas allowed, and went to the observation glass. “Rutger, you’ve got to release her!”

  “She hasn’t told us anything yet.”

  “She recognized Flick. He was at the Monbijou Park on Friday. The dead prostitute got a good look at him, too. That’s why she was murdered.” Thomas rubbed his tired eyes, looked at his friend. “Flick drove the killer away from the scene. I’ll bet he’s the thief that stole Himmler’s boat and motored up the lake to the Havel and onto the Spree.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You’re the investigator.”

  “The Sturmbannfuehrer was Himmler’s longest-serving, most trusted aide. Are you suggesting that Heydrich is attempting to undermine the authority of his boss?”

  “I know that one of the victims, Pastor Witte of Potsdam, was active in the Confessional Church. Beck, that SS officer wasn’t at the park to kill him.”

  “So, your girlfriend can identify the killer. Has she spoken to you about it?”

  “I can’t make her if she doesn’t want to.”

  Beck grabbed Thomas by an arm, tugged him to the door of the interrogation room, flung it open and told the policewoman, “Wait in the hall.”

  “Thomas, you’re hurt,” Ingrid said, and stood up.

  “Tell Inspector Beck what she looked like, the lady in the park. Go on, tell him!”

  “The murderer was a woman?” asked Beck.

  Ingrid went to Thomas, unwrapped his hands and kissed them. Then she gently touched his injured neck. “She had arched eyebrows, a long nose, and a pouty expression,” she told Beck over Thomas’ left shoulder. “She resembled a film star, elegant and unnaturally poised. She looked just like Marlene.”

  “Uta Perle,” Thomas said. “Flick had time to drive southeast into the Nikolaiviertel where Uta picked me up in her Black Maria.”

  Beck filled the doorway between the observation and interrogation rooms. “There’s another suspect you’re not considering. She is downstairs waiting for you, Thomas.”

  “Helga?”

  “What’s the difference between Uta and Helga?”

  “Look-alikes,” Thomas agreed. “What the film industry call body doubles.”

  “Take my word for it, she is capable of cold-blooded murder.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, slouched against the doorjamb. “Rumor has it that the Confessional Church runs an underground escape route to Sweden. I’m not sure how they do it, nor do I want to know. Maybe you can use your contacts to get in touch with them. It may be the best option for both of you.”

  Thomas looked his friend in the eye. “I can’t leave with my father in prison.”

  “You can’t get him out!” Beck said. “You act as if Heydrich promised he’d pull strings and, magically, get Peter Rost released.”

  Thomas didn’t reply.

  “Son of a bitch,” Beck whispered, “you made a deal with that Nazi bastard?”

  “What choice do I have? I have to try.”

  Beck went to the door onto the hallway, opened it. “Your friend can go. The policewoman will escort her from the building.”

  Thomas pulled out his wallet, handed her a wad of marks. “Go to your aunt’s. I’ll meet you tonight.”

  “No, I won’t be separated from you again.”

  “Do what I ask. Please.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked softly.

  “One more piece of information, that’s all I need.”

  She squeezed his arms, then she was gone.

  Rutger spoke to the policewoman and closed the door. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I no longer have access to the newspaper’s archives. Can you issue me a pass to the Kripo’s registry?”

  “You can’t wander around the basement by yourself. Besides, the registrar is a suspicious, bureaucratic sort who would telephone my superior for confirmation. What are you after?”

  “A copy of the Berliner Tageblatt from 1931.”

  “Material that old is stored elsewhere.”

  “Damn, I’ll have to try another way.”

  “Why not go with her? Personally, I think any delay on your part is a mistake.”

  “Rutger, I know you are risking your career for me. The least I can do is see this through.”

  Beck fetched the overcoat and hat, jammed the fedora on his friend’s head. “Don’t worry about me. I’m an old hand at covering my tracks.”

  Chapter 19

  THE MARQUEE GLOWED in the twilight, lighting the gold lettering on the plate glass window. The music of Cole Porter reached out into the cold winter night from Johnny’s Spot, the band playing “Every Time You Say Goodbye” with a uniquely American verve. Thomas opened the door for Helga and followed her into the nightclub.

  The same barman was on duty, mixing martinis with his mutilated hand for Berliners with plenty of cash and time to burn in the final days before Christmas. Most of the customers looked desperate to have a good time—drinking too much, talking too loudly, trying to force laughter into their conversations even when the fun had already gone to hell. The scene of hopelessness extended to couples on the dance floor who dragged themselves through a few more moves before sagging onto their partners’ shoulders, dancers posing unintentionally as models for the painting of a night at a cabaret in an Otto Dix triptych.

  Then, too, there was the half-naked African woman at the baby grand piano, her dark brown breasts swaying under a heavy gold necklace, her pointed
ebony nipples making an erotic counterpoint to the melody. A pair of drunken SS officers in uniform ogled her performance from the far end of the piano, waving handfuls of Reichsmarks in encouragement. Far from rescuing the capital from the depravity of the Roaring 20’s, the Nazis have brought us full circle, Thomas realized.

  To the right of the bandstand, a middle-aged lady in a sequined dress leaned tipsily toward her younger escort. “I’ve seen enough of this Josephine Baker impersonator, Max. Take me to the Jockey Bar.”

  “But, Frau Lessing, we just got here.”

  Helga flashed her ID at the young man. “Better do as she says, Max. She’s paying the tab.”

  The young man swallowed hard, pushed back his chair and helped his date into her fur coat. “Yes, Ma’am. We were just leaving.”

  The table vacated, Helga sat down, opened her purse and took out a silver cigarette case. After tapping the cigarette on the closed case, she lit it with a Cartier lighter and wrapped her red lips around the Gitanes. While Thomas hovered beside her, she snapped her fingers, drawing the attention of a white-coated waiter. “Cognac for two. Make it Charles Martell, VSOP.”

  Drinks ordered, Thomas excused himself. “The men’s room is behind the bar and down the hall. There is no back exit.”

  She winked. “I know, sweetheart. Take your time.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Incidentally,” she said, exhaling a stream of smoke, “if you see Johnny, invite him to our table.”

  Thomas worked his way across the dance floor as the band swung into “Stardust.” The dimly-lit hallway led him to Flowers’ office and he knocked on the door. When there was no answer he tried the doorknob. Surprisingly the door was unlocked and he popped his head inside. Johnny’s desk was covered with black-and-white photos and, giving in to temptation, he moved closer for a look at the pictures. Most were of women in a variety of poses, all in the nude. Some featured middle-aged men in various states of undress, the stuff of blackmail. One photo jumped out of the collage. There was Helga and the Sturmbannfuehrer, sharing a drink at the bar, a copy of the Frankfurter Zeitung on the counter between cocktail glasses. Thomas scrounged through the desk’s top drawer until he found a magnifying glass. The newspaper was dated December 19, 1941.