Reinhardt checked the address against the tarnished brass of the plaque by the gate: 169 Albrechtstrasse—Frankewitz. This was the place. He looked up and down the street. Opposite was a small park, to either side were more blank walls. Gripping the bars with his hands, and putting his foot on a crosspiece, he hauled himself up the gate, throwing a leg over when he was high enough, and letting himself down on the far side of the gate the same way he had come up.
He hopped on to the gravel, rubbing his knee, and then walked up the side of the driveway, feeling very self-conscious, even voyeurish, expecting at any moment the door or a window to open, and an accusatory face to emerge, but the house, when he reached it, gave every impression of having been closed up for a long time. He walked all around it, tracing a path along the overgrown scrub on its walls, and his feet crunched once on some broken glass. It was not a very large house, wider than it was deep, although it had two floors above the ground floor, and dormers in the high pitch of its roof. The back was like the front, but as he stood away from the walls, looking up and around, he noted what looked like a path through the grass, leading away from the house and back into a high growth of bush and shrubbery.
He stood to one side, looking at the path with cocked head, before following it through the damp clasp of the greenery. The path turned to one side, and another, before it opened out into another garden, much wider and deeper, most of which was given over to vegetable patches. Another house stood there, much bigger, an altogether grander affair with a turret and ornamented gables, and unmistakably inhabited. Smoke drifted up from chimneys, curtains hung in windows, a conservatory glittered against one wall with a tracery of plants visible behind the glass.
Reinhardt took a cautious line around the edge of the vegetable patches, up the side of the house and to the front door. A big car was parked in a carriage circle, similar to the one at the other house. It was in fairly good condition, and a driver in shirtsleeves was polishing its metalwork. The man straightened slowly, suspiciously as Reinhardt came around the corner of the house.
“Hey!” the driver called out.
Reinhardt ignored him, and the front door was opened to his ring by an elderly man in what seemed to be a butler’s old-fashioned livery. Reinhardt gave his identification and asked to see the owner of the house, turning to see the driver standing not far from him. The man was big, built solid, and the set in his eyes and shoulders was not friendly.
The butler was courteous enough for both of them, however, asking him to wait in the hallway, a tall space with a fretwork of dark, heavy beams holding up the high ceiling. A whisper of voices and the light fall of steps presaged the butler’s return, accompanied by an elderly lady in an elegant suit of blue wool, the upright image of a dowager, with civil, old-fashioned manners, who identified herself as Margarit Frankewitz. She seemed confused as to what Reinhardt wanted, her eyes glittering within the lattice of wrinkles that seamed the porcelain of her skin.
“Officer,” she said, holding up a hand. “I’m afraid I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Madame,” Reinhardt said, again, “your address has come up several times in a murder inquiry . . .”
“Murder inquiry?” She frowned imperiously. Her fingers were long and thin, the nails perfectly manicured, each finger with a ring. But the knuckles were swollen with age, each length of each finger slightly off true. “Heavens. How common. I think you should speak to my nephew. He’ll know what’s to be done. I shall call him to come, and I’m sure we can resolve this to everyone’s satisfaction. If you would care to wait . . . ?” Although she phrased it as a question, it was not meant as such, and she was already turning away to the butler, telling him to put Reinhardt in the conservatory—he would surely appreciate the light, Mrs. Frankewitz said in an aside—and to summon Claus.
She was gone before he could protest, and he followed the invitation of the butler’s arm with resignation, but when he entered the conservatory, he found it a place of warmth and light, with wicker seats in among the nodding arms of plants and flowers. It was still relatively early, and after the night of broken sleep he had had, he knew that if he sat, he would start to drift off, so he stood looking out at the garden, facing the light that shone in soft-edged streams through the windows. A door banged shut, there was a clatter of voices, and he turned, frowning at the edge of familiarity the voices carried, standing and turning as a man came into the room, tall and bluff, three-piece suit, watch chain stretching taut across a swell of stomach.
“Mr. von Vollmer,” Reinhardt said.
Von Vollmer blinked at him. “Inspector . . . Reinhardt?” His lips moved, as if discarding word after word.
“Somehow, I am not surprised by this.”
“By the house? Yes, remarkable isn’t it. We’re so lucky to be in the British sector, otherwise this house would have been requisitioned.”
“They’re accommodating a dozen families in a place like this elsewhere in the city,” Reinhardt said, a deliberate stab at provocation in his words.
Von Vollmer looked aghast. “Dear God, no. Think again, Inspector. Places like this, to the victor the spoils. Some Russian officer would have taken it, then kept food in the toilet and shat in the sinks,” he said, the vulgarity riding easily along his accent. He cocked his head over his shoulder to tell the butler to bring coffee. “Won’t you sit down? I mean, honestly, Inspector. Will the Allies permit the proletarianization of me and my class? What will that do to their hopes for a democracy,” he continued, pronouncing the word with particular precision, as though trying out something new, “if people like me—Germany’s eternal backbone—are impoverished to an extent our energies are consumed with survival instead of thought? Think. Just think how much more I could have contributed did I still have my estates. If they had not bee . . .”
“You lied to me.”
Von Vollmer colored. “I am not accustom—”
“You lied to me,” Reinhardt interrupted him. “At the factory. When I asked you if you had known Zuleger outside the workplace.”
Von Vollmer’s color fell, but his lips still moved as if biting off words he chose to discard. “I am not sure that I did know him, Inspector. Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain yourself.”
“Zuleger had an invitation to an event organized for Saturday night. Except it’s not this address. It’s the address of that other house. The one at the end of the garden.”
“This used to be one property. The other house was the guesthouse. We don’t use it anymore.” Von Vollmer’s mouth chewed its own words back for a moment, his eyes glancing up at Reinhardt. “It was a small event I organized for some among the workforce. It was just over a year since the factory reopened. I thought it worth celebrating.
“Inspector, I believe I told you that I see it as my stern duty to provide for my workers, especially for my ex-comrades, to those who carry the values of ‘soldierdom.’” He used this word with a tone full of gravitas, looking hard at Reinhardt to see if he understood the measure of it.
“Those values you might imbue to that concept are all but outlawed in modern Germany, sir. There are many who would say that those values—honor, sacrifice, duty—were the same ones that carried the Nazi cause out into the world.”
Von Vollmer’s color rose again. “Values . . . ? Who would say . . . ? You, Inspector? You would say such a thing?” he blustered. “Say rather that the Nazis misused traditional German military values, that . . .”
“I’m not here for a political lecture, Mr. von Vollmer. I want to know what Zuleger was doing with an invitation to this place last Saturday.”
Von Vollmer’s mouth firmed, and he nodded, finally. “I admit, Inspector, I did not tell you the whole truth that first time you came to the factory. But the explanation really is quite simple. As factory owner, as a man who employs many men who served under me during the war, I have a strong sense of du
ty—both as an aristocrat and as a former officer—to take care of my workers and former comrades. I believe as well that regular events help to inculcate a sense of teamwork and spirit in the workplace, as well as improving productivity. And isn’t that,” he asked, with no little irony, “an end much prized by our new Allied overlords?” Von Vollmer glanced outside at the garden. “I organized a gathering but, because of the Allies’ occupation laws that forbid the gatherings of veterans, or what might seem like one, I was obliged to organize it under my aunt’s name, here, at her house, to help escape suspicion.”
The butler brought in a silver tray of coffee, and von Vollmer paused as the elderly servant poured and left. Von Vollmer indicated milk and sugar, taking a cup of black coffee for himself. He sighed, his fingers playing with the chain of his watch. “I know that in our Germany of today, such gatherings of ex-servicemen are viewed with suspicion. A man in my position, I could not afford to have any problems. So I used the address of the guesthouse. But I assure you, there was no ulterior motive, and I cannot guess why or if Zuleger’s murder was related to our organization.”
“‘Organization’?” Reinhardt queried.
“Of the events. Organization of the events.”
“Did your organization have a name?”
“I told you, Inspector, there was no org—”
“Ritterfeld.”
Von Vollmer blinked, and his chin went tight. “What?”
Reinhardt unfolded the manifesto from his pocket. “Ritterfeld Association. Ritterfeld was the name of the air base where the Group was initially formed.”
“I know what Ritterfeld is,” snapped von Vollmer. “But I’ve never seen that.”
“I don’t believe you. And I don’t care that you organized a gathering of war veterans. And I don’t really care why . . .” he said, raising a hand to forestall von Vollmer’s protest. “Just please, stop lying or hiding things.”
Von Vollmer shook his head. “I insist, Inspector, that the meeting was not political, but simply a gathering that promoted comradeship and teamwork. All principles that lead to greater productivity in the factory. And productivity,” von Vollmer intoned, resolutely, “is a capitalist virtue, thus not something the Allies could possibly criticize.”
“You said that already.”
“What?”
“I would like to know who was at that gathering.”
“Why?”
“Did it involve anyone other than veterans from the Night Hawks?”
“What are you asking me? To incriminate people?”
“Was anyone there other than people who work for you? Was a man named Kausch, there?”
“No.”
“Does a man named Kausch work at your factory?”
“Honestly, Inspector, how would I know that? But, no, I don’t think so. It was a private gathering, Inspector. All I will tell you is it involved those with whom I work.”
“If that is the case, why was Noell invited?”
“Who?”
“Andreas Noell. I mentioned him when I came to your office. Also a former pilot of your command, although before your time, I believe. But he was murdered as well, early on Monday morning after attending some kind of party, and I find it hard to believe you would organize a gathering of men who served with you and he would not be here.”
“I believe this meeting is over, Inspector,” von Vollmer said, heavily.
“Was Noell here?”
“Inspector, I must warn you now. I have been patient. I have been collegial. I have spoken to you as one former comrade to another. But if this harassment keeps up, there will be legal implications. I am not without friends and influence who believe, as do I, that Germany must not be allowed to come to naught as she has done in the past.” Von Vollmer clamped his mouth shut, as if he realized he had said too much.
“Are you threatening me, Mr. von Vollmer?”
“And I have good reason to believe that should I so request it, you will be removed from this case.”
“A lawyer is perfectly within your rights, Mr. von Vollmer. Should you wish one to be present, I would be happy to wait. Or he can join us at Gothaerstrasse. Or perhaps at HQ on Linienstrasse.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” said von Vollmer, rising to his feet.
“You have not even asked me why I am here.” Von Vollmer blinked. “You have not stopped talking about your gathering. I do not wish to veer into arguments over reasons and ethics. I want simply to know why I have four dead bodies connected to your Group.”
“Four?” said von Vollmer. “At the factory, you mentioned three.”
“The body of Mr. Jürgen was found this morning in a hotel room.” Von Vollmer straightened up, the blood draining from his face. “You and he have been corresponding, on business matters, for some time. But I think he came to Berlin for your gathering, meaning more people than just those who work with you were here on Saturday. He was probably killed sometime on Monday.”
“I met with him at the factory . . .” Von Vollmer seemed genuinely shocked. On Monday morning. The day before you came. We talked about . . . about business. He has a factory . . . of his own . . .” Von Vollmer tailed off. “Jürgen? You are sure?”
Reinhardt nodded. “I think you know more than you are telling me. Someone is killing people who are all connected, and the connection is your Group. So I ask you,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, “what linked these men to each other that someone is killing them, other than that they had served together?”
“I don’t know, Inspector. So, if there is nothing more . . . ?”
“Yes. How about a lift?”
31
They came for him later, as the day was drawing to a close, as he was finishing drawing up a list of people for Mrs. Dommes and her assistants to start trying to contact, using the information he had gleaned from his day in the WASt. Like with the call to Lassen in the Hamburg Kripo, Reinhardt found the endeavor daunting in the extreme. Trying to track down individual men across postwar Germany made looking for a needle in a haystack easy, but Dommes shrugged off the difficulties.
“Four names, then, Inspector. Hauck, Osterkamp, Prellberg, and Thurner. In Aachen, Stuttgart, Braunschweig, and Stettin. That last one will be hardest, Inspector,” she said, with a firm slant to her mouth. “All the other locations are in Western Germany, in the Allied occupation zones. But Stettin is in Poland now. I don’t know how we’ll find out any information on Mr. Thurner there. If he indeed survived the war, it’s unlikely he would have returned. He could be anywhere.”
Reinhardt nodded, going back over his notes. “Their fighter squadron surrendered at Bremen. Perhaps we could make inquiries there. In any case, do what you can, Mrs. Dommes, perhaps starting with the others first. I will see if I can find some other way to locate him.”
“Very well,” she said, looking at the page of handwritten notes as if she expected the answers to leap off the page at her. “I shall proceed as we discussed. Calls to the central police registries in those cities with requests for information on these ex-pilots, and for checks to be made on them. Follow-up calls as necessary.”
She paused, and he glanced at her, but she was not looking at him. Ganz was standing in the door, his face grim. He pointed a finger at Reinhardt, then crooked it.
“You. Come with me.”
Dommes gasped at Ganz’s display of manners, or the lack thereof, but Reinhardt laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Thank you, Mrs. Dommes, you have been most helpful as usual. Let me know what you find out.”
“But of course, Inspector,” she said, directing a withering glare at Ganz.
Reinhardt followed Ganz into Neumann’s office. Tanneberger, Whelan, and Markworth were waiting there, with their translator sitting all prim and proper, and the atmosphere was thick. Collingridge was not there, but Bliemeister was, the assistant chief for the
American sector in a chair to one side of Neumann’s desk. Reinhardt was not offered a seat, and he flushed a moment at the image he suddenly had of a schoolboy hauled in front of the headmaster. Ganz handed him a photograph. It was a shot of a man with the back of his skull caved in. Ganz handed him other photos like a card dealer in a game, one after the other. All shots of the same man, shots of the injuries he had sustained, what looked like welts on his arms, thighs, and across his back.
“Who is that?” Reinhardt asked.
“That’s Stresemann.” The translator’s words floated softly behind Ganz’s.
“He looks dead.”
“He is. He was found in Neukölln.”
“Stresemann was beaten to death.” It was Markworth who spoke. Reinhardt said nothing, knowing the value of silence in such situations. “Sometime on Tuesday, we think. He was beaten to death with a long, narrow object.” He waited, but still Reinhardt said nothing. “He was beaten to death with something like a police truncheon.” Markworth held Reinhardt’s eyes. “Like a baton.”
“Where were you Tuesday night?”
“At home,” Reinhardt replied to Ganz. He looked at the others. At Whelan, at Markworth, at Neumann and Tanneberger. Whelan and Neumann looked uncomfortable, like men out of their depth. Markworth looked imperturbable, inscrutable even. Sitting quietly in his corner, Bliemeister said nothing.
“Witnesses?”
“My landlady.” Ganz raised his eyebrows. “And an officer of Soviet state security. He came to the house.”
“You have such a baton, do you not, Reinhardt?” Markworth asked.
The Divided City Page 24