Meissner came across the room, slowly, moving like the old man Reinhardt realised he was. Old, worn down. He sighed, then raised his arms and put his hands on Reinhardt’s shoulders. He patted his hands on Reinhardt’s epaulettes and smoothed down the material. ‘I have something for you,’ he said, giving Reinhardt a small package of soft leather. He began to unwrap it, but Meissner put his hand over his. ‘Look at it later.’ He gave a small smile, then pulled Reinhardt to him. ‘You were the best of them,’ he whispered. He pushed Reinhardt away, gently. ‘Do what you have to do.’
31
Driving through the city’s darkened streets, past blank windows and shadowed doorways, he lost himself once or twice as he tried to find the way back to Jelić’s building. He finally found it, recognising it only because of its new construction, its five floors sticking up and out of the rest of the neighbourhood. He drove past the apartment’s entrance, feeling suddenly wary, and parked a little way down the street in front of a rusty truck that sat atop four flattened tyres, the rubber parched and cracked. He switched off the lights and let the engine clatter into silence. He shifted in his seat, looking back down the street and up at Jelić’s apartment. Slits of light were visible through poorly drawn curtains, but no cars. If the police had been and gone, they’d left the lights on.
He lit a cigarette and waited, his fingers tapping the file where it lay on the seat next to him. The curfew was in its second night and it was quiet. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness and his ears to the silence, the shape of the street seemed to emerge from the night, cautiously, as if wary of men’s notice. It felt empty, but it was not. As form coalesced out of the dark, sounds followed. A clink of china. A snatch of conversation. Someone laughed. He knew he was taking a risk. Despite the curfew, he could not stay here long.
He drew deeply on his cigarette, feeling himself calm a little. He thought back to the revelations of the day. Begović a Partisan. Verhein a Jew. Meissner and Freilinger in the resistance, himself a pawn in a bigger game, and finding something that reminded him of what and who he once was. Something that felt right but on the cusp of being taken away. For the first time in years, he felt some lifting in the fog that had held him tight. Some clarity of purpose, something to aim at, a direction in which to go. He watched the reflected ember of his cigarette flare in the windshield as he drew on it, behind it the planes of his face welling out of the darkness, then back again. His thoughts faded in and out like the light. Was he too lost to himself, and to others? Too wrapped up in this selfish feeling of rediscovering himself, unable to see the big picture anymore? Not able to take this chance to strike a greater blow than he could ever hope to strike alone?
He stiffened as he heard a car. It came up behind him, its lights folding the lines and angles of the street from the dark. It parked in front of Jelić’s building and three men climbed out. There was a hum of conversation; someone drummed his fingers on the roof of the car. There was a squeal of hinges, a dull smack as a door swung closed, then silence.
Reinhardt hesitated with the file, then slipped it under the spare tyre. If the street had felt quiet before, it was nothing compared to what it was like now. He could practically feel the silence, touch it, hear the thoughts of the people in the street as they hoped and prayed the car was not coming for them. His heart pounding, Reinhardt followed them inside, pulling open the door slowly, softly, so the hinges did not squeal. He paused, listening, then walked quickly up the stairs to the second floor. There were lights under only one of the other apartments besides Jelić’s. He listened at the door, hearing the strong sound of voices, the tone forceful, accusatory. Reinhardt’s heart lurched, and not giving himself any time to think about it, he knocked once on the door, opened it, and stepped inside.
Jelić stood against the big desk, his face white and drawn where it was not already swollen and battered. Facing him was Putković, his meaty fist bunched in the other man’s shirt. Padelin stood off to one side, hands on hips. Both the policemen looked at him, Putković’s face red and florid, Padelin’s flat and expressionless. Two of them but three had got out of the car…
The door was yanked from his hand and slammed shut, and two huge hands like metal bands came down on his elbows and pinned his arms to his sides. He looked up over his shoulder at Bunda. The man was enormous. Up close, the ursine stink of him was almost overpowering.
‘What you doing here, Captain?’ asked Putković.
Reinhardt swallowed, then turned away from Bunda and his beady little eyes that shone out from under his cavernous brow. ‘I might ask you the same thing.’
‘I’m asking questions.’
‘Very well. I heard you were coming, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t make any mistakes. Again.’
‘You heard?’ repeated Putković. He exchanged a look with Padelin, who gave the smallest shrug of his shoulders. Putković looked disgusted and muttered something in Serbo-Croat. Reinhardt frowned as he made out several of the words.
‘Becker! You just said Becker,’ said Reinhardt, moving forward against Bunda’s grip. It was like trying to shift a boulder. Putković scowled. ‘What has Becker to do with this?’
‘That’s not important.’
‘No,’ agreed Reinhardt, changing tack, watching Putković struggle to reassess. The man was dense. Padelin, on the other hand, just watched. ‘No, what’s important is one of your men has his hands on a German officer.’
Putković grunted. ‘Yes. Well, badder things have happened. Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you. You are our ally, yes?’ he finished, with clumsy sarcasm.
‘What do you want with him, then?’ Reinhardt asked, looking at Jelić.
Putković looked at the young man with an expressionless face. ‘He knows something about a film,’ he growled, his fist tightening in Jelić’s clothes. Jelic made to say something, but Putković shook him, like a man might shake a kitten. ‘Šutjeti,’ he hissed.
‘I already told Padelin, Jelić doesn’t know anything.’
‘Yes, is what you said. But you didn’t give proof.’
‘Proof?!’ scoffed Reinhardt. ‘You haven’t been overly concerned with that until now. Why break such a good habit over someone like him?’
‘Break is good word, Captain Reinhardt. But not word you know well, I think.’
‘What?’
‘I will break this Jelić,’ said Putković, ignoring him. ‘Maybe you will tell me what I want to know. Maybe he will tell me what I want to know. I win both times. And, I have some fun with this Jelić,’ he smiled. In a form of repulsive symbiosis, Reinhardt felt Bunda’s grip on his arms tighten in what must have been anticipation.
‘Putković, there is no need for any of that.’
‘What is he for you, anyway?’ grunted Putković. ‘You fucking him or something?’ A dull glint sparked in his eyes, and he snorted something in Serbo-Croat at the other two policemen. Bunda laughed, Reinhardt feeling the huge man shake through the grip he maintained on his arms. Padelin just kept that basilisk stare, his eyes not leaving Reinhardt. ‘Hey, bum-boy,’ Putković laughed at Jelić. ‘This man bothering you? You have something you want to report?’ He carried on, guffawing over his own mirth with Bunda egging him on. From the way Jelić’s face coloured, Reinhardt knew that some of the barbs were striking home.
Putković gave a final laugh that trailed into a chuckle, and then he was silent, any trace of humour gone. He looked between Reinhardt and Jelić. ‘What you doing here, Captain?’ he said, again.
‘I came to see if he was in trouble. With you, over what you thought he might know.’
‘And what you think he might know?’
‘Like I told Padelin earlier today, he doesn’t know anything.’
Putković let go of Jelić, the young man staggering back and slumping against the big table. The policeman walked up close to Reinhardt and stared at him with his piggish little eyes. ‘I
don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘Why should German officer stick out neck for someone like him?’
Other than the fact that this was wrong, Putković was right. There was no reason why Reinhardt was doing this, and every reason to stay away. Every reason in the upside-down world this life had become. ‘I got the film from Tomić. He was Vukić’s cameraman. All right? He was supposed to be in Zagreb, but he was here all the time.’ He dared not say more unless he revealed too much about Begović and the safe house. Who knew how things might end then.
‘Where is Tomić now?’
‘I don’t know.’
Putković narrowed his eyes, staring intently at Reinhardt. ‘You don’t know? Or you won’t tell us? There is more. I know it.’ He stepped back. ‘We hear about you. You soft with Partisans.’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘In interrogations. You soft. Go easy with the Reds. You like Reds? You don’t break them. Just talk to them. Talk, talk, talk.’
Reinhardt felt a chill, a curious sense of dislocation, thinking of how Begović had spoken to him of this very same thing. It was like seeing himself suddenly from a different angle, as someone else would. A German officer soft on Partisans? Putković clenched his jaw and said something to Padelin, nodding his head to the door that led farther into the apartment. It looked like Padelin would protest, but then he just took Reinhardt’s pistol from his holster. Bunda let go of him, and Padelin took Reinhardt’s arm in his own not-inconsiderable grip and pulled him with him out of the room and down a short corridor. ‘In there,’ he said. Reinhardt opened a door into a bedroom. A rumpled half-made bed, a lit lamp on a bedside table. Padelin pushed him in with a heavy hand in his back. ‘Sit on the bed.’ Padelin shut the door, put Reinhardt’s pistol in his pocket, and took a chair opposite the bed, sitting back with a creak of wood and staring blankly at the wall behind Reinhardt.
It was hard to hear anything in the room through the walls and doors, and over the thudding of his heart and the pounding of the blood in his ears. What he could not hear, though, his imagination made up for. Jelić did not stand a chance against Putković and Bunda, and they would not waste too much time questioning him. And then what? The Germans and Croats were allies, but it would not take much for these three to get it in their heads that he knew more and then dispose of him somewhere. They could always blame it on the Partisans. Thinking of them had him thinking of this apparent reputation he had. Reinhardt, the interrogator soft on the Reds…
He put his forehead on his fingertips and sighed out slowly through puffed cheeks, looking up at Padelin through the bars of his fingers. ‘You don’t look very happy, Padelin,’ he said, lifting his head and dropping his hands.
The inspector blinked, his eyes fixing on Reinhardt. His mouth firmed, as if to hold something back. ‘No’ was the short response. ‘This is your fault, Reinhardt. You should have told me about Tomić.’
There was something to what he said, and Jelić was now paying for that decision. Reinhardt could not find it in himself to regret it, though. His arms throbbed where Bunda had held him. He put his hands on his knees, ran them up his thighs. He felt something in his pocket. Shifting his weight, keeping an eye on Padelin, he put his hand in his pocket, finding, remembering, the little package that Meissner had given him. He unwrapped it and caught his breath for a moment. It was his Williamson. The big pocket watch that he had left for safekeeping with Meissner. Who had returned it to him…
‘What do you know of friendship, Padelin?’
‘What?’
‘Friendship. Friends. What do you know of that?’
Padelin sighed. ‘Just be quiet, Reinhardt, and it will soon be over.’
‘I was a fortunate man, by most standards. I had good friends. The best. The sort that would lay down their lives for you. Ever had a friend like that, Padelin? No?’ The detective stared at him with his flat eyes. Reinhardt looked back down at the watch. ‘Do you think Vukić had friends?’
‘Be quiet, Reinhardt.’
Reinhardt fingered the watch, running his thumb over the inscription on the watch’s case, at the name engraved there. He had done that so often that the metal was worn smooth, polished to a bright edge. He checked his Phenix and adjusted the time on the Williamson before wrapping it back in its soft leather bag. He thought back to Meissner’s words and saw the sense behind them now. Meissner did not know how much time he had left, he realised, and did not want the watch to end up with anybody else. He was tying up loose ends.
He gave a shallow sigh, looking down at the floor. There was a coil of wire by his foot, leading from a plug to the lamp on the bedside table next to him. He shifted on the bed, putting the watch back in his pocket. As he did so, he slid his foot onto the wire, the heel of his boot resting on top of it.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ He took his cigarettes and matches from his other pocket, letting the baton slip up and out. He straightened his jacket as he did, making it all but invisible where it lay snugly down his leg. There was a sound from the main room. A thud. Someone cried out in pain. Reinhardt stared at the wall, then at Padelin. The big detective blinked, returning his stare with a monk’s impassivity. ‘I don’t think she had friends,’ said Reinhardt, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. He put his elbows on his knees, folded one hand within the other. ‘I think she had people that used her. For sex, mostly,’ he said, blowing smoke across the room.
‘What?’
‘I’m talking about Vukić. The Ustaše’s sex symbol.’
‘Quiet,’ Padelin grated.
‘Maybe I’m wrong, though. She had one friend so far as I can see, and that was Tomić. The one you’re after. The one you think Jelić can lead you to.’ Padelin shifted his hands where they lay on his lap. Reinhardt forced a smile. The sort of shit-eating grin he had seen countless suspects make. The one guaranteed to make a policeman’s blood begin to boil.
‘Why didn’t you say this about Tomić before?’
‘I told you. Why should I trust you? But I digress.’ Padelin frowned. ‘I’m changing the subject. We were talking about Vukić. Tomić told me a lot about her. You know, he was her father’s best friend. He was wounded in the war. He got his balls blown off. Imagine that…’ Reinhardt shook his head, taking another long pull on his cigarette. ‘I know I can’t. And God knows I’ve seen a lot of injuries in my time…’ He looked at the tip of his cigarette and tapped ash on the floor. Padelin’s eyes twitched. ‘He told me she treated him like her father. I suppose because her real one was too busy being an Ustaša, or whatever. He never quite said it, but I got the sense the father was no angel. Didn’t treat her too well. Probably tried to pass her around some of his friends. Tomić said she once tried to have sex with him, but, of course, he couldn’t. Once she found out, that was when she began to sort of treat him like a father. But of course one she tried to fuck. At least once.’
Padelin breathed in slowly, his chest rising like a bellows. ‘Reinhardt, is there any point to this? If not, then please be quiet.’
‘I’m just thinking out loud, really. No harm in that, is there?’ He smiled, seeing Padelin’s eyes tighten again. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Here we have this beautiful woman. Marija Vukić. Probably pimped out by her own father. Seeking solace from a eunuch. I think a lot of people wanted to have sex with her. She only wanted to have sex with older men. Men of maturity.’
‘Reinhardt.’
‘Men like me, for instance. You know, if she walked in here now, and she had to choose one of us, she’d choose me.’ Reinhardt grinned, swallowing at the back of it against a dry throat. There was another thud from the front room, a rumble of laughter like an engine heard through a wall. ‘Man of experience that I am. A touch of grey up here,’ he said, fluffing at his hair. ‘Medals. I’ve even got a war wound,’ he said, tapping his knee. He dragged his foot a little more, tautening the wire as it led into the wall. He forced
his grin wider. ‘I think she’d be all over me.’
‘Reinhardt, if you don’t shut up…’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Padelin. We’re just talking,’ he said, finishing his cigarette. He stubbed it out on the table. ‘But I have to ask, what did you think when you saw her dead? Did you think about what it might have been like? You know? To fuck her?’ The skin along the collar of Padelin’s shirt went white. Danger sign. Reinhardt’s blood thudded and pounded through his chest. Padelin filled the room with his immobile menace. Slowly, carefully, Reinhardt pulled on the wire. The cord tautened against the wall, went stiff against his foot.
He looked the big detective in the eyes. ‘Jelić was probably right about Vukić. She was a complete fucking slut.’ He saw the glaze come over Padelin’s eyes, as if a screen had swung shut somewhere inside him. ‘What was it he said about her?’ Reinhardt leaned forward, let that smile come over his face again, widened his eyes as if in merriment. ‘You remember? You do, come on.’ He tested his foot again, breathing over and around the fear that squatted in his chest. He leaned to the right, towards the door, watched the slight shift in Padelin’s weight as the detective mirrored his movement. ‘She’d fuck anything, right? Anything that could move its hips fast enough. But do you think she fucked the dead?’
Reinhardt knew Padelin moved without expression. No sneering, no roaring, no twisting of features. Just movement. Implacable, like a boulder coming downhill. He saw it begin as Padelin’s feet went firm to the floor, lifting his big frame in one smooth movement. Reinhardt allowed himself to show fear, real fear, and then he leaned towards the right and slid his foot hard across the floor, feeling the cord come popping out of the wall.
The Man from Berlin Page 32