The Man from Berlin

by Luke McCallin

  ‘But of course! Show them in, show the brave officers in!’

  The maid reappeared at the entrance to the living room, and ­beckoned them forward. They paused at the door while she took Rein­hardt’s hat, and even Padelin seemed somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer volume of lace and frills in the living room, such that it took them a moment to spot Frau Hofler, sitting with her back regally straight in an armchair with ornate wooden arms. She wore a flowing dress of a creamy colour and fabric that fell and pooled around her feet and looked like it might have been fashionable in Vienna in the last century. A small dog sat upon her lap, a pink bow tying its hair back above beady black eyes. Hofler sat with the light behind her, grey hair forming a halo around her head. A heavy smell of perfume and talcum powder deadened the still air.

  ‘Officers!’ she gushed as they came in, her eyes lingering on Reinhardt. She wore heavy red lipstick that split in a smile to reveal teeth far too white and even to be real on a person of her age. She held out a frail-looking hand, a ring on each finger. ‘Do come in,’ she said, fluttering her hand like a piece of paper caught in a breeze. The two moved into the room, walking carefully around small tables and display stands that held a profusion of porcelain figurines. ‘Sit down. Sit down there. There, on the sofa.’ Padelin inched his bulk onto a wickerwork sofa strewn with cushions. It groaned under his weight, shifting and squeaking. Padelin looked straight at the old lady, his face carefully blank. Reinhardt hid a smile and took a chair to the left of Frau Hofler. She looked between the two of them, a broad smile deepening the wrinkles around twinkling eyes.

  ‘Well!’ she exclaimed, beaming proprietorially at them. ‘What can I do to help two such fine-looking servants, one of our dear Fatherland, and the other of our dear Poglavnik? But no!’ she said, holding up her hand as if to stop any questions. ‘My manners.’ She put her chin down, eyes up, then called out in a ringing voice, ‘Gordana! Gordanaaaa! Ah, there you are, child. I was calling you for an age. Bring some of the coffee you just made, for the two officers. And perhaps a little something stronger on the side,’ she added, with a conspiratorial wink at Padelin. Reinhardt hid another smile, the old woman already figuring Padelin for the burly, honest policeman not averse to the odd tipple. ‘Chop-chop, dear,’ said Hofler as she dismissed the maid. The lapdog glared at Reinhardt with its round, wet eyes while Hofler smiled genially at them.

  ‘You are Austrian, Frau Hofler?’ said Padelin, filling the silence.

  ‘From Vienna. My husband is the general manager at the tobacco factory,’ she replied.

  ‘And have you been here long?’

  ‘My dear, sometimes it feels like forever. Not that there’s anything wrong with the city, or the wonderful country,’ she hastened to add, bringing Reinhardt into her confidence with wide eyes. ‘But, it’s not Vienna. You understand, of course, Captain.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Reinhardt.

  ‘Do you know Vienna, Captain?’

  ‘I do. I lived there for a year. In 1938.’

  ‘Ah, what a year,’ enthused Hofler. ‘A great year.’ Reinhardt only smiled. That year, for him, for Carolin, had been anything but great.

  ‘Frau Hofler,’ said Padelin, clearing his throat and pulling out a notebook. ‘We are investigating the murder of Miss Vukić, who was your neighbour, and were wondering if we might ask you a few questions about the statement you gave earlier?’

  A lace handkerchief appeared suddenly in Hofler’s hand, and she dabbed delicately at the corner of one eye. ‘Yes. Yes, the poor child. Please, ask me anything,’ she said with a decisive sigh, drawing herself up even straighter.

  ‘You told the police you saw a strange car on Saturday night. Please can you tell us more?’

  Frau Hofler sighed again and stroked the back of the little dog, which thumped its tail once, then put its head down. ‘I was walking my little Foxi as I often do at night, as I’m something of a late sleeper. It was around nine o’clock at night. I can’t be more exact, I’m sorry. And then, as we were approaching poor Miss Vukić’s house, Foxi began getting all restless, like he never usually does. I wondered what was happening, and then I smelled this horrible smell, terribly acrid, and I saw smoke coming from a car parked just in front of Miss Vukić’s. Well, Foxi was growling – he’s terribly sensitive to smells, you know – and I picked him up before he began making a fuss and walked by the car. I looked in and saw a man inside smoking a cigarette, and that was what was making the smell. And such a smell! When I came back, perhaps half an hour later, he was just driving away. He came past me and honestly I could still smell that beastly smoke.’

  ‘Can you describe the man, Frau Hofler?’ asked Padelin, pencil poised over his pad.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think so. It was dark, you see. But he was wearing a cap. Like a chauffeur’s cap.’ Reinhardt and Padelin exchanged a glance, and the detective made to ask another question, but the maid arrived with a silver tray, which she set down next to Frau Hofler. The old lady held up an imperious hand. ‘One moment, Inspector.’ Padelin set his pencil down on his notebook, clearly holding his temper in. Reinhardt watched him carefully. Brauer, Reinhardt’s company sergeant during the first war, and then later his partner on the Berlin detective force, had had an explosive temper on him, a temper that had terrified Reinhardt as a young lieutenant new to his regiment. Like Brauer, Padelin was flushing at the back of his neck, a thin crease of white skin showing along the line of his collar. Never a good sign with Brauer; Reinhardt wondered how Padelin would control himself. Hofler shooed the maid away, insisting on serving her gallant officers herself.

  ‘Frau Hofler…’ Padelin tried to continue.

  ‘How is the coffee?’ She beamed at him, stroking her little dog.

  ‘Very good.’ Hofler gave a coquettish smile and sat straighter. ‘Can you tell me anything more about the car, perhaps? What colour, or what make?’

  ‘Oh dear, I don’t think so. It was dark.’ She pursed her lips in thought. ‘It was big. Long. I suppose it was a dark colour.’ She fluttered her eyelids and smiled. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m not terribly helpful, am I?’ she said, turning to Reinhardt. She smiled at him, a tight pull of her mouth.

  ‘Not at all, Frau Hofler,’ said Reinhardt, who had been thinking about her description of the cigarettes this man had smoked and wondering why it sparked a memory. ‘You are being most helpful.’ He exchanged a glance with Padelin. ‘Now. Just think. Close your eyes, try to see the car. Can you see anything? Anything at all?’

  The old lady put her head back with her eyes closed. For a long moment she stayed that way. ‘You know, it does seem to me it was an official sort of car. The sort that important people drive.’

  Reinhardt gestured to Padelin to continue. ‘So that means that it might have had a special licence plate, or a badge on the door, or a flag at the front?’ said Padelin.

  Frau Hofler stayed with her eyes closed, the dramatic effect somewhat spoiled by the beady-eyed little dog that had begun to drool on her skirts. ‘A flag. Yeesssss… I do believe there was perhaps a flag, at the front.’ She opened her eyes and gave that coquettish little smile again. ‘Why, Inspector, how clever and persistent of you.’

  Padelin smiled back, a little tight around the eyes. ‘Can you describe the flag?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. I can’t really remember whether it was unfurled or not, and in any case, there was no wind.’

  ‘Could you see if anyone else was in the car? Maybe in the back?’

  ‘No. No, really, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Thank you, Frau Hofler,’ said Padelin, putting down his cup and raising his eyebrows at Reinhardt. The captain leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘You’ve been most helpful, indeed. Just a few more questions. What can you tell me of Miss Vukić?’

  Hofler’s mouth firmed a little, and she ran a hand down the dog’s back. ‘Well, she was often away. Her j
ob, you know. I did not know her that well. In fact, I would say I did not know her at all. I saw her from time to time, and we would exchange greetings, but that was it, really.’ Reinhardt stayed silent, and she looked from him to Padelin and back. Her mouth firmed again. ‘Well, I suppose it does no harm to say it, but I did not approve of her coming home at all hours, really quite, quite drunk, and that singing.’

  ‘Singing?’ said Reinhardt.

  ‘Yes, singing! The most appalling songs. The kind that one imagines the commonest sort of labourer might sing.’

  ‘Or soldiers?’ said Reinhardt, quietly.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Frau Hofler. ‘Like the sort a common soldier would sing.’

  ‘Did you ever see her in anyone’s company? With a man? Perhaps a soldier?’

  Hofler frowned, lips pursing as she leaned back, eyes flickering between them. ‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘There were often men at her house, yes.’

  ‘Do you recall any in particular?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I do not.’

  ‘How about if we were to show you a photograph?’

  ‘Yes,’ the old lady said. ‘Yes, that might help.’

  Reinhardt glanced at Padelin. ‘Someone will show you some pictures, of men you might have seen her with. You will maybe recognise one of them,’ said the detective, a peculiar emphasis on his words.

  Reinhardt placed his cup and saucer on the table, exchanging a glance with Padelin. ‘Well, Frau Hofler, you have been most helpful. If you think of anything, be sure to let us know.’

  ‘Yes, most helpful,’ said Padelin, placing a calling card on the table. ‘You can contact me at that number.’

  ‘Oh, I will, officers,’ smiled Frau Hofler, looking somewhat relieved. ‘Gordana! Gordanaaaa!’ The little dog jumped and barked. ‘Ah, there you are, child, don’t make me call for so long. Show the ­officers out.’

  Making their bows, they followed the maid to the front door. As she opened it, Padelin put a hand out to stop her. Reinhardt kept walking and paused on the step. ‘Koliko dugo ste radili ovdje?’ Padelin asked in a low voice. When the questions were simple, Reinhardt could follow the language.

  She kept her eyes down, but that was normal. ‘I’ve been here four years with Frau Hofler.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Miss Vukić?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. I never talked to her.’ Padelin said nothing, only kept his eyes on her. After a moment, the maid glanced up, then down and away. ‘Honestly, sir,’ she whispered.

  ‘Dobro,’ said Padelin. ‘That’s it for the car,’ he said to Reinhardt, switching back to his German. ‘Not much.’

  Reinhardt nodded his head in agreement. ‘This place. Ilidža. Who lived here before? Serbs? Croats?’

  Padelin looked at him, his eyes flat and heavy. ‘Serbs. Mostly.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Croats. Some Muslims.’

  ‘Is there a Catholic church here?’

  ‘No,’ frowned Padelin. ‘Time now to get back to town, I think. I have to inform the mother.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Reinhardt did not wait for an answer but walked on back down the path. After a moment, he felt Padelin’s heavy tread following. He held the gate open for him, noting the flush at the back of his neck as he passed. ‘Would you like to sit with us on the way back? Give us a chance to talk, share notes?’ Padelin thought a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Let me give instructions to my men.’ He walked faster, turning back down towards Vukić’s house. As he passed the ambulance, Reinhardt saw Begović sitting on a rock with his coat off, face raised to the sun and with his eyes screwed tightly shut.

  ‘You’re still here, then?’

  Begović fumbled his glasses back on. ‘Until the pathologist and forensics boys arrive, yes,’ he said with a straight face.

  Reinhardt could not help smiling back. He liked this little man, with his ironic sense of humour and apparent disregard for authority. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your help.’

  ‘My pleasure. And I’m actually just waiting for my driver.’

  ‘These might make the wait a bit more bearable.’ He took out his cigarettes, shook a couple out for himself, and offered the rest to Begović. The doctor’s eyes lit up as he climbed to his feet.

  ‘Well, thanks very much indeed.’ He leaned his head forward as Reinhardt offered a match. He lit the cigarette and watched Begović draw deeply.

  Reinhardt put his head to the bright wash of the sky, then looked up and down the long, tree-lined alley. ‘They tell me there used to be horses and carriages here. That you could take a ride up to the park.’

  ‘Up to Vrelo Bosne. That’s right,’ said Begović, as he exhaled a long stream of smoke. ‘In the old days. The good old days, one might even say.’ He watched Reinhardt as he said it, his expression bland and his eyes blank. It was not as if those few words were incendiary in and of themselves, but you never could tell these days what was meant by what, or who was listening.

  Reinhardt looked back at him, his expression and eyes equally devoid of any feeling. ‘I went there, once. When I first came here. Very pretty.’

  Begović’s eyes narrowed, and he gestured at Reinhardt with his cigarette. ‘You know, I’ve seen you before.’ Reinhardt raised his eyebrows. ‘At the prison. I’m there, sometimes. On call.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t recall seeing you.’

  ‘Word gets around. You used to be a policeman?’

  ‘I’m an officer in the Abwehr, now, Doctor. That’s all that counts.’

  ‘If you say so,’ shrugged Begović, agreeably.

  He did say so, although there were times the past would not leave him be. Long before the prisoners of this war were paraded before him, it had been the murderers and gangsters of Berlin’s streets and back alleys, back before things spiralled out of control. But that was another life, and one he thought of seldom, even if it still left him a small corner of himself to hang on to.

  ‘Captain,’ said Begović, looking intently at him, his eyes suddenly focused, all trace of levity gone from his voice. ‘Be careful with them, with Padelin and his like. Don’t forget that first and foremost they are Ustaše.’

  Reinhardt glanced sideways at the doctor. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning they’re interested in three things. Being Croat. Being Catholic. And being unpleasant to anyone who isn’t one of the first two.’

  ‘Risky words, Doctor,’ said Reinhardt.

  ‘But true,’ said Begović, quietly.

  ‘But true,’ said Reinhardt, after a moment. He blinked away a flash of memory, of a Serb village the Ustaše had destroyed. Black-faced corpses hanging from the bowed arcs of branches, the bodies swirling slowly to a rhythm the living could not know. He frowned, feeling guilty all of a sudden.

  Begović blew smoke at the sky. ‘I’d give you good odds that before the end of the day, they’ll be trying to pin this on Senka, or whichever Partisan is flavour of the month.’

  ‘Senka? “The Shadow”? This is a bit beneath him, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? The elusive Shadow,’ mused Begović, ‘coming and going as he pleases, tying the Gestapo in knots, leaving the Ustaše looking like fools.’

  ‘Well,’ said Reinhardt, ‘I wouldn’t overestimate Senka’s importance.’ He said it straight, but it felt like a bluff, and a weak one. As a military intelligence officer he knew better.

  ‘Ahh, Captain,’ replied Begović, his eyes closed to the sky and a little singsong cadence in his voice. ‘Every secret stolen, every train delayed, every patrol ambushed… They say it lights a fire in the people’s hearts. Who wouldn’t open their doors to him? Lift a hand to help him? Or walk up into the hills in search of the Partisans. And you wouldn’t overestimate his importance… ?’ He turned his face down and around, his eyes blinking away the light. ‘Anyway, he isn’t supposed to exist. Is s
he?’ Begović said, with a grin that slid ­naturally into a smile as he threaded his heavy glasses back on. A car pulled up next to the police cordon and tooted its horn. ‘Ah, there’s Goran,’ said Begović, as the driver got out and waved. The doctor threw his jacket over his shoulder. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain Reinhardt.’

  Reinhardt walked back to the kübelwagen, his feet shuffling aimlessly in the gravel and dirt at the road’s shoulder and feeling somehow like a fraud. He mulled the doctor’s words over as he watched his car turn around, seeing the driver’s bearded face peering over Begović’s shoulder. He walked slowly back down the alley with his hands scrunched deep in his pockets, morose. It was a truly lovely spot here: the green wave of the mountains behind, the open plain in front, and the alley of platanes arrowing straight up to the Bosna’s source.

  That time he had gone there, he had taken off his boots and rolled up his trousers to dip his feet in the water. It had been icy cold, soothing. There had been soldiers everywhere: Germans, Italians, Croatians, even a few Bulgarians. But he had not been able to shake off the eyes he felt watched only him. Women from behind their veils, children scudding in their wake. Men from behind their moustaches, big fingers curled around little cups of coffee. Waiters with towels folded over their arms and round silver trays in their hands. He had dried his feet on the grass, rolled down his trousers, and left, and had never been back.