The Man from Berlin

by Luke McCallin

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Well, that would be neither here nor there, sir. And in both cases, unless this were official, which I feel it is not, it is none of your business.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ asked Reinhardt, leaning both elbows on the desk and swivelling to face the man directly. He leaned back slightly, as if to keep Reinhardt at arm’s length.

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Yes. Afraid. Something to hide, perhaps?’ The receptionist frowned, drawing himself up, and Reinhardt wondered if he had gone too far too quickly. ‘Very well,’ he said, quickly. He nodded at a door to one side, marked Private – Manager. ‘Let me speak with him. Now.’

  ‘What, may I ask, is so urgent?’

  ‘Well, I said you could ask,’ said Reinhardt, glancing around the lobby. Apart from the waiters in the dining room, there was no one.

  ‘In that case, I’m afraid I am not able to help you, sir. Good day to you.’ The man sniffed, then picked up a pen and began to write in a small book. He looked up after a moment, seemingly surprised to find Reinhardt still there. ‘Was there something else, sir?’

  ‘Your manager. Go and get him.’

  The receptionist’s face flushed, the wrinkles around his eyes whitening. ‘I told you –’ He broke off as Reinhardt slapped Thallberg’s letter naming him a GFP auxiliary down on the desk. He looked at Reinhardt before polishing his glasses on the edge of his waistcoat. He pulled his nose tight as he put them on, then picked up the paper. With a last look at Reinhardt over the top of his glasses, he sighed, as if giving him a last chance to leave, and then began to read. Within moments the man’s eyes flicked up at Reinhardt, then back to the letter. He finished it and put it down on the counter. He took off his glasses, his fingers nervous on the frames, and looked up.

  Reinhardt grinned, the most insolent grin he could come up with. ‘Changes things?’ The receptionist cleared his throat. Reinhardt made the grin go away, looking hard at the man. He did not like acting like this, and the man was polite and just doing his job. It felt wrong, but it was part of the role he had to play.

  ‘I am not sure it does, sir,’ said the man, but he sounded noticeably less sure of himself.

  ‘Oh, I assure you it does. You either help me now, or I come back with a squad of Feldgendarmerie and turn this place upside down. Now. For the last time. Your manager.’

  The receptionist knew when he had lost. ‘Yes, sir. Whom shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Captain Reinhardt. Abwehr.’ He flicked a dismissive hand at the paper. ‘Just as it says on the letter. Show it to him.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the man. He straightened his suit jacket with two hands, and stalked off with his head high over to the manager’s office. He knocked once, cleared his throat, then opened the door and stepped inside.

  The moment he did, Reinhardt reached over the counter and hauled up a big ledger, bound in black leather, the pages thick and white. He looked quickly at the date, flicked back a page, finding the weekend. He ran his fingers down the list of names, his eyes leaping over the looping signatures of generals, colonels, majors… Some of the names he recognised. Most of the names of the officers from the bar were there. Faber. Forster. Lehmann was there. Verhein! There he was. Colonel Ascher’s name was next. His chief of staff, Reinhardt remembered. He had been at the bar as well. Two other colonels from the 121st were there: Gärtner and Oelker. He made to put the ledger back, then paused. Why bother? He had been thinking furtively, like someone doing something wrong. He was doing something wrong, but the person he was supposed to be would not think that way. He swallowed, hot and embarrassed, feeling how close he was to skirting that line he had always tried to stay away from. He feigned a nonchalance he did not feel, forced himself to lean on his elbow on the counter as he lifted another page.

  The receptionist came back out, Reinhardt’s letter in his hand. Seeing him with the ledger, he stopped dead for a moment. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Where’s the manager?’

  ‘Absent.’

  ‘Very well. You’ll do just as well. By the way, your name is?’

  ‘Ewald. Alfred Ewald.’

  ‘Well, Mr Ewald, may I have my letter back?’

  He put his hand on the ledger as Ewald reached for it. ‘I declare, of all the insolent…’

  ‘Mr Ewald, I am on official business. Official business,’ he repeated. ‘You can either help me or hinder me. In both cases, I get what I want. In one case, you come out worse. Decide which it will be.’

  ‘The manager will complain about your behaviour. Believe me he will. To the highest levels.’ Reinhardt stared back at him, expression even and blank. Ewald clenched his jaw and then seemed to calm. ‘Very well. What do you want?’

  ‘For now, just to look at this. If you will permit me… ?’ Reinhardt looked at the date entries for Verhein. Checked in on Thursday. Checked out on Sunday. As did all of his officers. But Reinhardt had seen Ascher just on Tuesday, in the officers’ mess when he had made such a fool of himself. He jotted the dates down in his notebook.

  ‘Are you aware of the murder of Miss Marija Vukić? On Saturday?’ Ewald nodded. ‘Well, I have reason to believe the killer may have been one of your guests.’

  ‘One of our…’ he said. Reinhardt watched him as the light in his eyes seemed to fold back and away, and he stood straighter, as if braced.

  ‘Yes. One of your guests. Now, think back to Saturday night. Did anything happen you thought then was strange? Or think now was strange? Anything at all. Take your time.’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Ewald. ‘Nothing comes to mind.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Reinhardt pursed his lips. ‘A woman was murdered not five minutes’ walk from here, by someone who had almost certainly stayed in this hotel, and you can tell me nothing.’ He sighed. He felt deflated suddenly, but he saw that his sigh had a different effect on Ewald. He saw an officer, a security officer, an apparently frustrated security officer. ‘Who was on the front desk that day?’

  ‘That was me, sir.’

  ‘Hmmm. There was a conference here that weekend, no?’ He motioned at the ledger. ‘All those officers. There was a dinner? A ­reception?’

  ‘On Saturday night, yes,’ said Ewald. ‘But dinner was quiet. There was quite a bit of drinking afterwards, though. Not too much. I mean, I’ve seen much worse,’ he finished, a sickly sort of smile creasing across his face. It looked wrong on him.

  ‘Were there any guests? People invited to the dinner?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Only a few. All officials of the state.’

  ‘No women?’

  Ewald looked scandalised. ‘This is a respectable establishment.’

  Reinhardt shook his head in exasperation. ‘Not those sort of women. Guests. Of the officers.’

  ‘Ah. No.’

  ‘When did the dinner finish?’

  ‘Around nine o’clock, sir,’ said Ewald.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then? Well, I believe most of the guests went to their rooms. Some went to the bar. Not many. Perhaps a few may have gone out, probably into town, or perhaps across to the Hungary.’

  ‘Did you find any of that normal?’ Ewald raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. ‘Officers unwinding after an event like that usually make more of an occasion of it, no?’

  ‘I have seen things get a little out of hand in similar circumstances, sir, yes.’

  ‘But not this time?’ Reinhardt nodded, looking at Ewald. ‘I would like to have a look around the hotel.’

  The receptionist gave a grudging nod. ‘I remind you, Captain, I will be complaining about your behaviour,’ he said. Then he paused, turned back, and picked up a set of keys.

  Reinhardt followed the receptionist upstairs. Ewald looked back, once or twice. Reinhardt just gestured to him to keep walking. The receptionist l
ed him up to the second floor, then down a wide corridor before Ewald stopped at the end, in front of a wide window. Reinhardt looked at him. ‘I want to see the room General Verhein occupied.’

  ‘Ah. It’s on the first floor.’ Ewald showed him back downstairs to a spacious room, dark red carpet, the bed linen and drapes of creamy linen. There was a small bathroom in white marble. The cupboards and drawers were empty, and the room smelled faintly of whatever cleaning product had been used on it. ‘Has it been occupied since the general left?’ Ewald shook his head. The room gave onto the long terrace that ran the hotel’s length, with a view of the round lawn that separated the Austria from the Hungary. Vukić’s house was away around the back of the hotel, not visible from here.

  Reinhardt walked back into the room, staring at Ewald where he stood calmly with the keys in his hands. He looked at him without speaking, hoping that perhaps his silence would shake something out of him. He walked back out into the corridor, then paused at the landing. Ewald stopped behind him.

  ‘You know, it’s interesting the way people can sometimes anticipate what others want. I imagine you do that a lot, working in a hotel.’ Ewald said nothing. ‘I asked to see around the hotel, and you took keys without being asked. You led me up to the second floor, without being asked. To the end of a corridor. It’s a funny place to bring someone. You seemed surprised that I wanted to see the general’s room.’ Ewald stayed still. ‘Was there really nothing unusual on Saturday night? Speak freely.’

  ‘Freely?’ Ewald repeated. There was a sudden bitter cast to his face. ‘There is no such thing anymore, Captain.’ He paused, then swallowed, looking much older. ‘You know, Captain, you may not believe me, but I once was the concierge at the finest hotel in Klagenfurt. I liked my work. I was respected. This,’ he said, looking hard at Reinhardt, ‘is not where I ever thought I would find myself.’

  Reinhardt sensed this was just Ewald’s way of working himself up to speak. ‘You know, you sound much like another man I know. Kurt Manfred is the chief waiter at our barracks. He used to work at Medved’s, in Berlin, and always tries to keep his standards up.’

  ‘I know the feeling, sir,’ he replied, softly. ‘It is not always easy.’

  ‘What’s up there you thought I might want to see, Ewald?’

  ‘How should I say it? There was… a guest who had rather a lot to drink that night. He held court, so to speak, in the bar downstairs. There was some trouble. A fight. More than one. The Feldgendarmerie had to be called to calm things down in the end.’

  ‘And you thought it was his room I wanted to see?’ Ewald nodded. ‘Who was it making trouble?’

  ‘It was an SS Standartenführer. You understand… people like that can make life impossible for someone like me.’ Reinhardt nodded, but said nothing. The old man sighed. ‘His name is Stolić. He comes here quite often when he is in town and invariably causes trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Oh, his kind never need much of an excuse. He drank a lot with dinner, and more afterwards. One of the other officers was playing the piano, and he argued about that. Then he got into a fight with a Croatian Army officer. One of the other colonels managed to calm him down, but then Stolić got upset again, and the colonel told me to call the Feldgendarmerie.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Colonel Ascher. The Feldgendarmerie arrived quite quickly but were not happy about taking on a Standartenführer, so they themselves called for more help. Meanwhile, Stolić got into another fight. I don’t remember what it was about. He was very drunk. Out of control. Then a Feldgendarmerie officer arrived, and he calmed things down. That was the last I heard of it.’

  ‘Do you know what time the Feldgendarmerie officer came?’

  ‘Perhaps… around midnight. No. Closer to one in the morning.’

  ‘The officer. Did you recognise him?’

  Ewald nodded. ‘Yes. It was Major Becker.’

  Reinhardt looked at him. Ewald held his eyes, and then they shifted. ‘There’s more, isn’t there? Why did you want me to see his room?’

  Ewald sighed. ‘The next morning, the maid who cleaned Stolić’s room… He was still in it. Asleep. She said…’ Ewald looked up at Reinhardt. ‘She said… on the floor. On the floor… there was a knife. It was covered in blood.’

  25

  I want to go to that church. The one down at Marijin Dvor,’ said Reinhardt, as the houses began to thicken on the approach to ­Sarajevo.

  ‘St. Joseph’s,’ Claussen replied. ‘Finished just before the war,’ he continued.

  ‘What makes you so familiar with Sarajevo’s churches?’ asked Reinhardt.

  ‘I attend mass,’ replied Claussen. ‘Every Sunday I can.’

  Reinhardt said nothing, only thinking how far he had drifted from the religion of his youth. Church every Sunday, singing in the choir, altar service. Light through stained-glass windows. The comfort of simple truths that just seemed to unravel as you got older.

  Claussen stopped the car in front of the church. The façade was all square, white stone, a rectangular steeple with a clock at the top pushing up one side. He looked up at it, thinking. He did not have all that much to go on, but the way the killer had arranged Vukić’s body would not leave him alone. He picked up the file. ‘I’m going in to see if I can speak to someone. You’re welcome to stay with the car. Or go in, say a prayer. Light a candle.’

  If Claussen appreciated the irony in Reinhardt’s tone, he gave no sign of it, but he did follow Reinhardt up the steps to the tall wooden door. Inside, the church was like all churches in Reinhardt’s experience. Gloom pierced by the light from high windows, the smell of incense and beeswax, the sense of voices far away but just around the corner. Claussen stepped quietly away as they came in, moving over to a bank of votive candles.

  Apart from a couple of old women kneeling over to one side, and another running a mop over the tiles under one of the Stations of the Cross, the church was empty. The red light of the host drew his eye, and he sat down on one of the front benches. The wood creaked warmly under him, soft and honeyed, awakening a whole different stream of memories. He kept his eyes on the host, letting it keep his gaze until he felt them begin to close, and tried to remember when places like this stopped being places of solace for him.

  He opened them to the sound of whispered footsteps. A priest turned along the front row of benches, genuflecting to the altar as he crossed the aisle. He looked down at Reinhardt, looking like every priest one imagines. Portly, balding, grey hair cut close around the sides of his head.

  ‘Can I help you, my son?’ the priest asked in German, glancing at the file on Reinhardt’s lap.

  Reinhardt stood up. ‘Perhaps, Father. I am investigating the murder of a young Catholic girl.’

  The priest tilted his head backwards in a sign of understanding. ‘Ah,’ he said. He gestured at the bench for them both to sit. ‘You are investigating poor Marija’s death, no?’ His German was good, an accent riding along behind his native Bosnian one.

  ‘That’s right, Father. How did you know?’

  The priest smiled, sadly, it seemed. ‘This is a small enough town, my son.’ He looked at Reinhardt’s insignia. ‘Captain?’ he asked. Rein­hardt nodded. ‘Word gets around easily enough. Marija was very well known to all. She was a parishioner.’

  ‘Did she usually attend mass here?’

  The priest shook his head, and his mouth firmed a little. ‘Not regularly. Without wanting to speak ill of the dead, and without wanting to take anything from her achievements, I must say that Marija’s behaviour left something to be desired, Captain.’

  ‘You know your ranks, Father.’

  ‘Oh, only sometimes. I’ve been known to mix my sergeants with my colonels on occasion,’ the priest replied.

  ‘Father… ?’

  ‘Father Petar,’ he said.

 
; ‘What time is the first mass on Sunday?’

  ‘At seven o’clock.’

  ‘Is there another service?’

  ‘Yes. At ten.’

  ‘Did you serve either of the masses?’

  ‘I was there, yes. At both of them.’

  ‘Father, did you notice if there were any Germans in the congre­gation?’

  ‘We get a lot of German soldiers in here. Many, these past few days. From the barracks just up the road. Praying, for success mostly.’

  ‘Success in what?’

  ‘The coming offensive, of course. Against the Partisans. The archbishop gave a most rousing sermon on it just this Sunday.’

  Reinhardt had met Archbishop Šarić once and, as an intelligence officer, read translations of his newspaper articles. The man was a rabid Ustaša, a committed fascist. He had also read some of the tawdry poetry the man produced, paeans of praise to Pavelić and his ilk, venomous tracts against Jews and Serbs. The way it had been explained to him, Šarić was one of the instigators behind the mass conversions to Catholicism that were often forced on the Serbs by the Ustaše. Just before they were hacked to death and dumped in mass graves.

  Petar brushed down the front of his cassock, then stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, Captain? I have things to see to.’

  Reinhardt wanted to get out of there before he became maudlin, or said something and regretted it. Not that he would be sorry for what he said. He would be sorry to have lost control of himself and said it. That, as Carolin would say, he would dare to express an opinion outside a police case. But he had not yet got what he came for.

  The two of them walked down the aisle to the entrance. ‘Your German is very good, Father.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. I spent some years studying for the priesthood in Bavaria. A most pleasant time.’ There was a moment of silence, the church drinking up their words. ‘And will you be taking part in the coming attack, Captain?’