‘Yes, I would say so, sir.’
‘I would say so,’ Freilinger repeated, quietly. He worked his mouth around his mint and turned those blue eyes on Reinhardt. ‘What now?’
‘Now,’ answered Reinhardt, with only the slightest hesitation, ‘we are going to continue our research. At the State House.’
‘Will you confront him? Verhein?’
Reinhardt and Thallberg looked at each other. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ answered Thallberg. ‘We still need more evidence, and we haven’t much time. So if you will excuse us… ?’
Freilinger nodded. ‘Carry on,’ he said.
‘Was there something you needed, sir?’ asked Reinhardt.
Freilinger put the envelope on Reinhardt’s desk. ‘This is for you.’ He stepped back, and it was then Reinhardt saw it. A tension in the major’s bearing, his arms stiff at his sides, and the knuckles showing white across his closed fists. ‘Perhaps you will let me know later what you find.’ He paused and swallowed, slowly. ‘Well done, Reinhardt. Well done, indeed. Gentlemen,’ he said to them both, and left.
Reinhardt felt a flood of tension wash out of him he had not known was there. He picked up the envelope and took out a sheet of typed paper. He read it with a mixture of relief and disappointment before folding it back up and putting it in his pocket. He looked at Thallberg, who was waiting for him, his face expressionless. ‘State House?’ Reinhardt asked, picking up the file and the film case, not wanting to let them out of his sight. Thallberg nodded. ‘Then after you,’ he said.
29
Thallberg kicked his office door open, holding the rebound for Reinhardt. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, as he swept up the same two mugs from earlier that day. It seemed like Reinhardt had been drinking it all day long, but he nodded anyway. Thallberg leaned into the corridor and hollered someone’s name. As he waited, he pushed open his window and chucked the dregs out, apparently not caring on whom they might fall. Reinhardt found himself peculiarly struck by that act. Seemingly nonchalant, throwing coffee out of a window in a place like the State House, but he had seen him not a half an hour ago, crippled with sudden nervousness at the thought of where this case might actually lead him. What might it mean, he suddenly wondered, if it came to the crunch? Would Thallberg fold or stand tall?
Thallberg handed the mugs over to a noncom who knocked at the door. He shucked off his jacket, letting it drop over the back of a chair, and put his hands on his hips. ‘Right, then. Now what?’
Reinhardt took out his list of units in Schwarz and the list of conference participants that Thallberg had given him that morning. ‘With Verhein and his staff, like we said. Who does he have around him? Who came with him to Ilidža for the conference? Do we have anything on any of them?’
Thallberg gave a small smirk. ‘ “We”?’
‘Turn of phrase,’ said Reinhardt, keeping his eyes on his lists, but he felt himself colour. He took out his pen and began marking the names on the list of conference participants of officers from the 121st. Verhein. Colonel Ascher, his chief of staff. Colonel Gärtner, divisional intelligence officer. Colonel Oelker, commanding the first regiment, probably the most senior of the combat officers. Major Jahn, divisional medical officer. And a Major Nadolski, divisional quartermaster. Six names. He jotted them down, then handed what he had written to Thallberg.
The captain looked it over. ‘So, where will you start with that?’
‘Well,’ said Reinhardt, as he sat back and lit a cigarette, ‘I would start with connections. Someone put the Feldgendarmerie onto this case. Had Becker looking for Krause. What would make Becker do that?’
‘Self-interest?’ asked Thallberg, his eyebrows raised.
‘Possibly,’ replied Reinhardt, his voice noncommittal.
‘Blackmail?’
‘Maybe. Although that’s always tricky, blackmail. You might have something on someone and get them to do something against their will. But in doing it, they in turn have something on you. It can get out of hand quite quickly.’
‘Friendship?’ asked Thallberg. He looked, for a moment, like a boy who had answered a trick question posed by a teacher, and expected any second to be ridiculed for it.
Reinhardt nodded. ‘Friendship. That’s a powerful force. They all are, in their way. Self-interest. Blackmail. Friendship. Could be any of the three, or something else, but from what I know about Becker, it’ll be self-interest. What we’re looking for is a connection between one, or more, of these men and Becker.’ He drew on his cigarette, then pointed it at the list of names. ‘Very likely, someone in this lot murdered Hendel and Vukić, and then brought in Becker to start clearing it all up.’
‘Or Becker heard about it, and got involved in return for something?’
Reinhardt inhaled, holding the smoke in his mouth, then exhaled slowly. The smoke drifted up into his eyes, making him narrow them and squint. He nodded. ‘Could well be.’ Thallberg looked absurdly pleased with himself. ‘Makes our life a lot harder, though. If that’s what happened, then we’re never going to find a connection.’
‘So what, then?’
‘So we assume there is one, and work off that assumption for now.’
Thallberg rubbed his eyes, and yawned. ‘What do we need?’
‘We need to match up Becker with Verhein’s staff. For that, we need service histories. I can pretty much lay out Becker’s, but I don’t know anything about these others.’
‘Right, then, let’s see what we can do here,’ said Thallberg, sighing the words out, almost talking to himself. ‘Army administrative files are over at the Kosevo Polje barracks.’ He looked at Reinhardt, but Reinhardt felt Thallberg was looking through him. ‘Want to take a chance? Let’s see what we’ve got here. Gestapo might have something. The boys in the security police might have, too…’ His voice trailed off as he jotted something down on the piece of paper Reinhardt had given him and walked over to the door. ‘Beike!’ he called. Thallberg handed over his piece of paper with some muttered instructions, then took the coffee from another soldier and pushed the door shut with his foot.
‘Now what?’ asked Reinhardt. Maybe it was because he had worked alone so long, with people he knew either meant him harm or would not stand in the way of any harm which came his way, but Reinhardt could not get over an unease he felt at the way he saw Thallberg sharing tasks and information around without any apparent qualms.
‘Now we wait.’ Which was what Thallberg did, feet up on the desk, mug held to his lips, eyebrows lowered. He rocked himself slowly back and forth on the two back legs of his chair, apparently lost in thought. Reinhardt would have liked to relax like that, but his mind kept bumping around, back and forth over the events of the day. The morning’s depression, the revelations, the elation… the day seemed to be never-ending. He yawned, abruptly. More to keep his hands busy, he began to jot down what he knew – postings and dates – of Becker’s career since he had been kicked out of Kripo.
Becker was off the force and out of Berlin by the end of 1936. Reinhardt heard he had gone south, to Munich, tried to set himself up as a private investigator, and then nothing more about him for several years after that. When the war started, he learned Becker was a police instructor at the Feldgendarmerie training centre. How he managed that with his record, and what favours he had called in to secure that post, Reinhardt had no idea. It did not save him from frontline postings, however. Reinhardt knew Becker had been in the invasion of Poland as a company commander in a police battalion. Then Yugoslavia. He had come in behind the initial invasion, back in April 1941, then on to Greece, then back to Serbia. Postings in Belgrade, then Niš, then Sarajevo.
‘You know, if we can’t find anything here, we might have to call Berlin,’ said Thallberg. He looked at Reinhardt over the rim of his cup. ‘Ready for that?’
Reinhardt was saved from having to answer by a knock at the door. Corporal Beike stepped inside
with several files and papers in his hands, which he handed to Thallberg. ‘This is all?’ the captain asked.
‘Just what we’ve got. I’m still talking to the Gestapo about what they might have.’
‘Any trouble?’
‘The usual, sir. No need for you to get involved just yet.’
‘ ‘Trouble’?’ asked Reinhardt. He stood and came around to Thallberg’s side of the desk. There really was not much. Three flimsy cardboard files with loose papers inside them. Ascher, Nadolski, and Jahn.
‘The Gestapo doesn’t always like to share. It’s a common failing of most bureaucracies, I’ve found. Especially feudal ones like ours,’ he said, winking ironically as he passed Reinhardt two folders, those of Majors Jahn and Nadolski.
There was not much. Major Jahn was suspected of being addicted to morphine, of siphoning off supplies of it for his own use and trafficking it to other units. Major Nadolski had been reprimanded for misusing official transport on several occasions, including once to transport a load of women (the women were down as entertainment for the officers). He looked at Thallberg. ‘Nothing,’ he said, his mouth twisted with frustration. He got up, putting his hands in the small of his back, and looked out the window. ‘You?’
Thallberg shrugged without looking up, leafing over a page. ‘Ascher apparently put his hand up an altar boy’s cassock in Zagreb.’ He frowned at the last page. ‘There’s reference to a previous inquiry, before the war,’ he muttered. ‘There’s a note here about a police investigation in Munich. Something similar, back in thirty-seven. Nothing else.’ He tossed the folder down on the desk.
‘Jahn likes morphine, and Nadolski misuses divisional transport.’
Thallberg chuckled. ‘So Verhein’s staff consists of a suspected bum bandit, a morphine addict, and a transport officer who transports things of dubious military value. Pretty tame stuff for these times, don’t you think?’
Reinhardt nodded, despite not liking Thallberg’s levity. There really was not very much.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Reinhardt looked around. Beike was looking at the list of names, the officers from the 121st. He picked it up, and looked over at Thallberg. ‘Sir, excuse my intervention, but I believe there is a name missing.’
‘Missing?’ asked Thallberg, glancing at Reinhardt.
‘I believe there is one more officer who should be on the list. Colonel… that is, Standartenführer… Stolić.’
Reinhardt frowned, walking slowly towards Beike. ‘Stolić? He’s 7th SS.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the corporal replied. ‘He is also the liaison officer to Verhein. Between the 121st and the Ustaše. He was assigned to that duty last week.’
Chance, thought Reinhardt, the first thing that came into his mind. Chance again. What are the odds that a clerk, a corporal, would see that list… ? And know that information… ? And the second thing he thought, he thought about the odds that Freilinger did not know that. Had not known it, all the time Reinhardt had been investigating this.
‘Who is this Stolić?’ asked Thallberg, looking at Reinhardt.
‘He’s come up a few times in the investigation. A nasty piece of work. Croat Volksdeutsche, in the SS. He had a thing for Vukić, but she wasn’t interested in him.’
‘What else do you know, Corporal?’ asked Thallberg.
‘The captain is correct, sir. Standartenführer Stolić has a reputation as a drinker and womaniser. He is also, as the captain said, a “nasty piece of work”. There have been several complaints about his behaviour towards captured prisoners of war and against civilians. The Italians in particular have been most vociferous about him. That’s why he’s been transferred, I believe. The Seventh is operating in the Italian zone and they’ll have nothing to do with him.’
‘Go on, Corporal,’ said Reinhardt.
‘Stolić has a sort of band around him. Men like him. According to what I know, most of them met in Spain where they fought for the nationalist forces. Stolić returned from there with a nom de guerre. El Cuchillo. I believe it means “the knife”.’ Reinhardt and Thallberg exchanged glances. ‘Stolić is known for carrying one. A very large knife, called a Bowie. According to the way he tells it, he took it from an American he killed in Spain.’
‘Thank you, Corporal. You have been most helpful.’ He waited until the door had closed before turning to Reinhardt. ‘Well? What do you think?’ There was a gleam in Thallberg’s eyes.
Reinhardt too felt a rise of excitement, but he paused before answering. ‘I think it sounds good.’ Thallberg grinned, the gleam in his eyes brightening. ‘But this is what my old instructor would call an orgy of evidence. It sounds almost too good to be true.’
‘Some things are, though, aren’t they?’ asked Thallberg, somehow giving the impression of a disappointed little boy.
‘Some things. Not many. And not usually in this line of work.’
‘So where does this leave us, then?’
Reinhardt thought for a moment. ‘We have two names. Verhein and Stolić. We know Verhein had an affair with Vukić, and we can place him at the scene. He was at the conference, staying at the hotel, and we have him on camera with her. We know he beat her unconscious. We can also place Stolić at the hotel. I got confirmation of that from the hotel staff. He was upset and disruptive, and we know he had a thing for Vukić. He carries a knife, and Vukić was killed with one. A large one, with a particular shape to its blade. I can also place Major Becker at or near the scene. He was called out to calm Stolić down. And we know the Feldgendarmerie were on the case sooner than I was, and the only way that could have happened was if the killer told them about it.’
Thallberg thought for a moment. ‘But that doesn’t mean the Feldgendarmerie know or knew the killer was actually the killer.’
‘No, but there’s a bloody good chance that’s what happened. Think about it. The Feldgendarmerie have produced no suspects. They haven’t even admitted they’re investigating. Why would they do that? Why wouldn’t they at least interview the officer or officers who reported the murder?’ Thallberg nodded. ‘It’s because they’re in on it. Becker has something to gain from this, but what I don’t know.’
The two of them were silent a moment. ‘So, what’s your theory, then?’ asked Thallberg.
‘Vukić and Hendel planned to confront Verhein with the evidence that he is a Jew, and that there has been an internal investigation into him for some time. I think Vukić couldn’t, or wouldn’t, wait for Hendel to get to her, and confronted him herself. Enraged, he beat her. He fled. He spoke to his friends, or to his staff. They agreed to clean things up for him. Stolić was one of them. He hated Vukić for always turning him down, disrespecting him. They went around to her house, finding her conscious. He stabbed her to death. The police doctor always thought the stabbing was the work of a man deranged. I think Stolić fits that bill, and he carries a knife. Becker was brought in to help clean up.’
He paused.
‘But… ?’ prompted Thallberg.
‘But… there’s the question of the blood. The mess…’ Reinhardt trailed off again, thinking back to the hotel, the talk with Ewald, and then with the maid. What she said she had seen. What she had not seen…
‘What about the mess?’
‘There wasn’t enough of it at the hotel,’ said Reinhardt, still distracted. ‘And I can’t figure out why and how Becker would agree to be part of this. What did he know? Or see… ?’
‘Well, I suppose the only polite thing to do would be to ask them,’ said Thallberg. ‘Verhein and Stolić.’
‘They’re at the front.’
Thallberg nodded. ‘Then we’ll just have to go to them. Ready for that?’
Reinhardt paused before answering. ‘We can’t arrest them. Not with what we have.’
‘Who knows? We can at least question them, can’t we? Put the fear of God into them?!’ Reinhardt nodded fi
nally, holding Thallberg’s eyes, watching that manic grin flash across his face. ‘What about Becker?’
Reinhardt shook his head. ‘Not a word to him. He may tip them off. And believe me, he’s more dangerous than he looks.’
‘So you keep saying.’ Thallberg blinked. ‘Tomorrow, then. I’ll need that long to get things ready here. Tomorrow, early morning? Six o’clock? From the barracks? I can take you in the sidecar if you need. How about movement orders? Need anything?’
Reinhardt shook his head, ignoring the rush of words, and thinking of the paper that Freilinger had given him. ‘I have movement orders and I can get us a kübelwagen,’ he said. They were silent a moment. ‘Are we really doing this?’ asked Reinhardt, half to himself.
‘It would seem so.’ Again, that abrupt mood swing. Thallberg sat there, looking subdued and turned in on himself.
Reinhardt got to his feet. ‘Until tomorrow, then,’ he said. The moment felt suddenly formal. Thallberg must have felt it, too, because he rose to his feet, and they shook hands. The moment broke, and the two of them smiled self-consciously at each other.
‘Until tomorrow, then,’ echoed Thallberg.
With the film and file tucked under his arm, Reinhardt paused on the steps of the State House. He felt light-headed, adrift, despite having as firm a purpose as he had had these past few years. He lit a cigarette and walked slowly to his car in the gathering dark. Before he went anywhere, he knew, he needed to speak with Freilinger. There was unfinished business there, but he was afraid of what it might mean.
Back at headquarters, Reinhardt passed by his office a moment. There was a note from Claussen on the meeting with Captain Oster. The two soldiers treated for burns of the hands and forearms were 121st Jäger. Reinhardt grinned mirthlessly, but the grin faded fast as he leaned down to unlock his desk. It had been forced. Rather expertly, but forced nevertheless. He took a long, ragged breath, letting it out slowly, thinking that the unfinished business just became much harder, but at the same time simpler. He gripped the film case and the file tighter and went upstairs.
The Man from Berlin Page 30