The Man from Berlin

by Luke McCallin

  Downstairs, he found Padelin sitting on a concrete block in a patch of late afternoon sun. A handkerchief was wrapped around his fist, spotted with blood. Reinhardt tossed the film into the kübelwagen and walked over to him. Padelin looked up as he approached, his eyes hooded. ‘Was that absolutely necessary?’ Reinhardt asked. Padelin blinked, that slow blink of some great, ponderous beast at rest, and said nothing. Reinhardt looked at him, then shook his head and went back to the car.

  He picked up the film case and turned it over and over in his hands. The kübelwagen shifted and creaked as Padelin sat in the seat next to him, his jacket folded over his lap, and rested his elbow over the car’s door, for all the world a picture of a man off for a drive in the country.

  ‘I’ll take you back to your headquarters,’ said Reinhardt, starting the car. ‘I need to show this film to my superiors and see if anyone can recognise that man. I’ll see if I can’t get you a copy.’

  As Reinhardt dropped Padelin off at his headquarters under the dull gaze of a pair of policemen on duty outside the main entrance, the big detective paused as he opened the door. ‘It may not be needed, the copy,’ he said. Reinhardt blinked at him, saying nothing. Padelin glanced at his watch. ‘But I do want to know where you got it from.’

  ‘Padelin, I don’t understand you,’ said Reinhardt, staring straight ahead.

  ‘There is nothing to understand. Marija Vukić was killed by one of your soldiers. Apparently this officer she knew in Russia.’

  ‘Did you see her murder on that film? Did you?’ He stared hard at the detective, and this time it was Padelin who would not meet his eyes. ‘I didn’t. I saw a man who beat her, yes. I also saw a man who seemed to stop himself from going further than he did. I saw a man who seemed upset at what he had done. Which means we still don’t have a suspect for her death. We have someone we need to interview. That’s it.’

  ‘Who gave it to you?’ Padelin grated.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Why? Why should it matter? I mean, not much of material value to this investigation has mattered to you until now. Why should this?’

  Padelin clenched his jaw, the muscles bunching as he ground his teeth. ‘It matters,’ he said, slowly, ‘because otherwise I… we… have been made to look like fools.’

  ‘Like… ?’ Reinhardt raised both hands to his head, taking his cap off and scrubbing his fingers through his hair. ‘Padelin, do you honestly think that matters? And honestly, can you look at me and tell me that, through all this, through these past days, you have not acted like fools? Not acted against the evidence? Went where you wanted things to go, instead of following where the evidence suggested you go?’

  ‘Well, if you won’t tell me, maybe Jelić will.’

  ‘Jelić? Oh, for Christ’s sake, Padelin. You can’t be serious.’ Reinhardt looked hard at him. ‘Padelin. That boy had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘So I say. Leave him out of this.’

  ‘Why? What is he to you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  Reinhardt ran his hand over his forehead. His skin felt thick, clammy, as if he had a fever. ‘Padelin…’ he began. ‘Padelin. You think I have never felt the need to battle my enemies without constraints? There’s nothing unusual in that. We would not be human if we did not struggle against what restrained us. It is that which demands our attention. Not the urge to action, or to violence. But what holds us back from it. As policemen, we might have such wishes. It does not mean we will act in the way we want when the restrictions are removed.’

  ‘I have no restrictions other than those the law places upon me.’

  ‘Padelin, you may believe that. I tell you it is not true. And even if it were so, what does it mean if the law itself is no restriction? If the very law we uphold is what pushes you to excess, or what tolerates it? The law that you – that I – operate under tolerates no restrictions other than its own belief in itself. There is no boundary to what it will do, no threshold it will not cross. You know that.’

  ‘This law… my law, is the expression of the…’

  ‘… will of the people. My Volk. Your Narod. I know. It holds no secrets for me. I was dealing with it long before you ever put on a uniform. But you know… you know, Padelin, that not everyone is equal before that law. Some it recognises over others. And those others have no recourse other than the restraint you, as a policeman, choose to exercise.’

  ‘Reinhardt, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you… it’s like someone saying, “Hold me back, hold me back or I’ll kill that person. I’ll kill that murderer. That rapist. That Jew. That Serb.” But maybe what that person really means is, “Because you are holding me back, I can say I want to kill that person.” Because I know I will not. I will not because it is wrong, because the law will stop me. Because my friends, my colleagues, will stop me.’ He could see he was losing him. Padelin frowned, his mouth clamped tight shut, but he pushed on. He had to say this. ‘So the question, Padelin, is this: if a policeman is allowed to act without restraint – to the boundaries of what is permitted, and perhaps even beyond – will he do so? If not, what will constrain him? What holds him back? Will the law, will his society, his conscience, show him clearly not every goal sanctifies every means? And perhaps even there are means that cannot – ever – be sanctified.’

  ‘Sanctified? Reinhardt, I do not understand you. I don’t understand that word.’

  ‘Sanctified. Means “accepted”.’ Padelin looked down at his knees, where his hands rested on them. He spread his fingers, then bunched them back up. ‘What I am saying to you is, you have reached this boundary. You may even have gone over it before. Once. Twice. Many times. It does not mean you must always do so. There has to be something to come back to.’

  Padelin nodded, then got out of the car. He closed the door and looked down at Reinhardt. ‘What I know is we had someone for Marija Vukić’s murder, and now that person is dead. We have been made to look like fools. You are making us look like fools. I don’t like that and the people I work with will like it less.’ He stepped back from the door, holding Reinhardt’s eyes. ‘You should maybe trust us more. We are your allies, after all. You will, I am sure, be hearing from us soon.’ With that, he was gone.

  28

  Reinhardt pushed open the door to his office to find Thallberg sitting slumped in one of his chairs. He had his feet up on the edge of the desk and the chair back on two legs. He jumped to his feet as Reinhardt came in.

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?!’ he snapped.

  Reinhardt put the film case on the desk and raised a placating hand as he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Thallberg looked hard at him as he inhaled and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘I was called away,’ he said, finally.

  ‘Reinhardt, you’re going to have to do a bit better than that.’

  Reinhardt held up a hand again. ‘Yes. Yes, just a moment, I need to think some things through.’

  ‘Think what through? You told me on the telephone you had information for me. You said you’d found “him”. Well? And what’s that?’ said Thallberg, pointing at the film.

  ‘That’s what I was called away to pick up. It’s a film.’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s not the latest offering from the Universum studios.’

  Reinhardt pulled his chair out and sat down, drawing smoke deep into his lungs before answering. ‘It turns out Vukić liked to sometimes film herself with her lovers. On the night she was murdered, she arranged to have herself filmed. That’s it.’

  ‘Christ,’ breathed Thallberg. Then his eyes narrowed, and he stared accusingly at Reinhardt. ‘How long have you known about this? About her doing this?’

  ‘Almost from the beginning. She had a sort of studio in her house. It ha
d been ransacked, all the films taken, and then I found a two-way mirror with a camera behind it…’ He stopped as Thallberg held up a hand, shaking his head irritably.

  ‘Wait, later. Later. Go back a bit. Your telephone call. Who do you think you’ve found?’

  ‘I’ve found the man Hendel was tailing. And I know who he was reporting to in Berlin.’

  ‘And?’

  Reinhardt drew deeply on his cigarette, thinking of the bottle in its drawer and how much he needed a drink. ‘I found one of Hendel’s files,’ he said, shifting in his chair as he pulled the file out from under his tunic. ‘If you can believe it, he’d put it in the sidecar of a motorbike he and Krause took out to Ilidža. The bike was parked in the Feld­gendarmerie station out there. Just sitting in the lot, where the police had dropped it off. You want something to drink?’

  Thallberg frowned irritably, staring at the file. ‘Sure.’

  Reinhardt filled a cup and handed it to Thallberg, then poured himself a shot and knocked it back. He breathed out slowly, took a drag of his cigarette, and saw Thallberg looking at him with a sardonic glint in his eyes.

  ‘Well, I wanted one. You certainly needed one.’ Reinhardt flushed, a hot sweep that came suddenly up his neck. He stared back, and then, feeling defiant and ridiculous at the same time, he poured himself another, then corked the bottle.

  ‘The file?’

  ‘Here,’ said Reinhardt, tossing it across the desk. Thallberg swept it up and began to read. Reinhardt sipped from his mug, trying to slow the racing of his mind, waiting for the other man to finish. Thallberg looked up, his eyes and face full of a kind of confused blankness, which Reinhardt was sure had been in his own gaze when he had finished the file. Thallberg sighed, then took a long sip of his drink, eyes squinting against the taste.

  ‘Looks like you needed that,’ observed Reinhardt.

  Thallberg puffed out a breath and had at least the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Well, I said I was after something big, but this…’ He puffed out his breath again. ‘This Varnhorst suspects Verhein of being a Jew? Verhein’s a hero, you know. Medals for everything. Everyone’s favourite soldier.’ He frowned, sipping again from his slivovitz. ‘God, I hate this stuff,’ he said, putting the mug back on Reinhardt’s desk, barely touched. ‘Give me a beer every time. If I’m not mistaken, Verhein’s being lined up for a post at Army High Command. The Führer’s apparently mad keen about him.’ He shook his head. ‘Someone like Verhein? A general? A Jew? You know, a lot of people are going to look like fools if this is true.’ Reinhardt said nothing, only feeling a surge of bitterness in his mouth as Thallberg echoed Padelin’s words to him earlier. ‘Who gave you this?’

  ‘Her cameraman. We – the police and myself – thought he was in Zagreb. Turns out he was here and he’s been in hiding since that night. With that.’

  ‘You’ve seen it?’ Reinhardt nodded. ‘Who does it show?’

  Reinhardt breathed deeply. ‘It shows her having sex with, and then being beaten by, a certain General Paul Verhein.’

  Thallberg put his hands behind his neck, then drew them slowly down and around over his mouth. ‘Christ,’ he said again. ‘Christ! Wait,’ he said, suddenly. ‘It doesn’t show her being killed? Or show Hendel?’

  Reinhardt shook his head, looking at the red tip of his cigarette. ‘The film ends before that.’

  ‘Fuck!’ exploded Thallberg, jumping out of his chair and beginning to pace around the room. ‘So we’ve got an army general caught on film getting his end away with this Croat skirt, then slapping her around. Then nothing. Then two dead bodies, one of them one of my men. Oh, Christ,’ he said, putting his hands in the small of his back and stretching, looking at the ceiling. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Has been from the beginning,’ muttered Reinhardt. He followed Thallberg with his eyes as the captain paced around the room.

  ‘You recognised Verhein? On the film?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘I’ve never seen Verhein but the man on the film looked like that man in the photograph in the file while Vukić’s cameraman identified him as the man she was seeing in Russia last year.’

  Thallberg puffed air out, drawing his fingers back and forth across his lips. He eyed the file where it sat on Reinhardt’s desk. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’ He put his elbows on the desk and stubbed out his cigarette. He ground the butt out methodically, taking time to run his mind back over the rush of the day. ‘All right, then. A couple of things. I think you need to see the film, to confirm what I saw, and to possibly identify Verhein. You can identify him, can’t you?’ Thallberg nodded. ‘I’m not convinced Verhein killed Vukić. He may have killed Hendel, though, but the timing is all off.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She lay on the floor after she was beaten, and she must have been lying there a good ten, fifteen minutes. I don’t think he would’ve hung around. He’d have gone. He was scared. Of her, and of what he’d done.’

  ‘So what’re you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying…’ said Reinhardt, slowly, ‘I’m saying he’s a general. And generals don’t usually do things for themselves if they can avoid it.’

  ‘His staff,’ said Thallberg after a moment.

  ‘His staff,’ agreed Reinhardt. ‘A witness reported a car that night, parked in front of Vukić’s house. And a man. Almost certainly his driver.’

  ‘You think the driver killed the girl? And Hendel?’

  Reinhardt shrugged, leaned back in his chair, and put his hands behind his neck. He thought for a moment. ‘Vukić’s cameraman said Verhein had a bodyguard or servant who was devoted to him. An Asian, apparently. From Russia.’

  Thallberg grunted. ‘Probably a Tartar. I know a few who joined up. Mad buggers, all of them, capable of anything. Some of the stuff I saw them do in Russia you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘No. Again, the timing’s wrong. Or at least, if he did it, he’d have had to come back to do it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And it’s not exactly in a driver’s or servant’s job description, is it?’

  ‘What, to clean up an officer’s mess? I know a few who have done just that.’

  ‘But this is murder,’ protested Reinhardt. ‘You can’t exactly order a driver to do that.’

  ‘Someone else, then,’ said Thallberg.

  ‘Someone else,’ agreed Reinhardt. He fished in his pocket and took out the list he had made yesterday. ‘A general’s usually got his men close by him. Chief of staff for sure. For that planning conference, almost certainly his divisional intelligence officer. Maybe we could start there.’

  Thallberg nodded. ‘Good a place as any, I suppose. Going to take some time, though.’

  ‘What can you do? Get access to personnel files? See who he’s got around him?’

  ‘Something like that. I’ll have to do it at the State House, so you may as well come with me. It’ll go faster if we’re together.’ Thallberg looked at his watch and Reinhardt stifled a sudden yawn, glancing behind him out the window. The sun was still up, but it was getting on for late afternoon. He realised he was exhausted. He rolled his head around on his neck, feeling the pull of tension on the muscles in his back. His shirt felt heavy and sticky, clinging tight around his neck and arms. ‘I think I was followed today.’ Thallberg raised an eyebrow but said nothing. ‘They weren’t yours, were they?’

  Thallberg snorted. ‘No, Reinhardt. I don’t have anyone following you.’ He rose and stretched as well.

  ‘I’m also pretty sure that someone tried to get into –’

  There was a knock at his door, and it began to open. Both Reinhardt and Thallberg froze, looking at the file on the desk. Thallberg made to move towards it, but Reinhardt shook his head before turning to see who was coming in. It was Freilinger. The major looked between the pair of them as they came to their feet, his eyes fastening on T
hallberg.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Captain Thallberg, sir. 118th Jäger.’

  Freilinger looked at Reinhardt. ‘Is this the one you told me about?’ Reinhardt nodded, ignoring the slightly accusatory look Thallberg sent him. Freilinger’s eyes fell on the file on the table, but he said nothing about it. ‘You are making progress?’ he asked Reinhardt. He held an envelope in his hands.

  Reinhardt nodded, suddenly unsure how much he could confide in Freilinger. That difference in the lists came suddenly to mind. An oversight, perhaps. But perhaps something else. In any case, Reinhardt realised, where did he himself stand now? That morning’s talk with Freilinger had seemed pretty clear. Reinhardt was on his own with this. Who, Reinhardt asked himself, did he actually work for? ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Good progress. I think I have the main suspect.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Again, that hesitation. Reinhardt resisted looking at Thallberg. ‘I can confidently place General Paul Verhein at the scene of the crime that evening, and I know it was him who beat the woman, Marija Vukić.’

  Freilinger’s expression did not change. ‘Verhein?’ he repeated. ‘Commander of… 121st Jäger? You think he’s involved?’

  ‘I don’t think, sir. I know.’ Freilinger raised his eyebrows, inviting him to go on. ‘I have a film that shows him sexually involved with Vukić the night of her murder. I know they were having an affair in Russia and I now know Hendel was following and reporting on him to the SD in Berlin.’

  Without taking his eyes from Reinhardt, Freilinger took his tin of mints from his pocket and put one in his mouth. ‘Well, well,’ he said, his voice a dry rasp. He looked at Thallberg. ‘Quite something, wouldn’t you say, Captain?’