"Thank you, Herr Enders. Thank you very much." Then something occurred to him. "Do you happen to need some condoms? There are something quite new. Mint-flavored. Selling like hot cakes. Let me show you. They can't keep up with the demand "
At the corner of Detlev and Seilerstrasse there was a post office. I had enough change left and phoned Frankfurt from a booth beside the entrance. Bertie stood guard outside. I called Tutti. It took quite a long time until her sleepy voice answered, "Hello. Yes, this is Tutti Reibeisen. Who is it?" Her voice sounded as if her mouth was full or marbles. Suddenly she said, "Ouch!" Then I heard Max's voice. "What fucking ass is calling us at five o'clock in the morning? Your balls are bursting, maybe?"
"Max, this is Walter Roland. And it's only 4:30." Outside it was pouring.
"Well, that's just great that it's only 4:30. 'Scuse me, Waltofe. Didn't know it was you. But I just can't stand this shit phone waking Tutti and me when we've just got to sleep. Man, good old Tutti was doing her stuff until two I"
"Has she recovered from Leichenmiiller?"
"Whaddaya mean, 'recovered'? We've got this new co-op apartment. They've gotta help pay for it, kid. But today we really creamed them. Three old guys from the sticks. Two hundred marks a piece, nothin' but French. Now Tutti's mouth hurts. Ain't easy for her to talk."
"I don't get it."
"WaltaW Man... that took time! Old men, all of 'em. But forget it. We're going to the Taunus over the fiekend, that'll give her a chance to recover, or she's gonna collapse, bless her. What's the matter? In trouble?"
"No. I just have to ask you something, Max." I told him where I was and roughly what had happened. I ended up with, "You know the area here, Max. Maybe you know Karl Concon, a fag...."
"Sure I know that piece of shit. Fag—OK, that's his private affair. Don't have a thing against it. But the other things he does..."
"I know all about it, Max. Now, listen. Concon used to have a hotel in Kastanienallee. It's quite possible that he knows the 866
owners of some of the hotels around here from way back, and that he's got friends among them who might be willing to hide him if it became necessary. Because he's gone underground. He's afraid of something."
"Because he messed up that business at the camp?"
"Yes. Some men seem to be after him because of that. He didn't get Irina. Do you know the owners of some of the hotels around here that rent rooms by the hour?"
"Sure, I do!" said Max. "I wasn't more than a year in Sankt Pauli, but there's nobody in the business I don't know." I heard him mumbling, "Yes, he's in Hamburg. Needs help. Ill tell you all about it, Tuttilein— What?... Yeah. I'm to give you a big wet kiss from Tutti."
"Give her one from me. So what do you think? Where would the guy hide? Somebody who wouldn't talk, so he could stay there awhile."
"Lemme think," said Max. "Really good friends, eh?"
"Yes."
He thought it over for a few seconds, then came up with the names of five hotels in the vicinity of the Reeperbahn and the Grosse Freiheit. I wrote down the names on my pad.
Our hopes weren't exactly high. If Karl Concon really wanted to disappear, his friends would protect him and remain silent about it. Our idea was pretty feeble, but we couldn't think of anything better. In the first three hotels we said our names were Carsten and Enders, and that Karl Concon was expecting us. No success. Behind their desks in the indescribably dismal hotels, sleepy night clerks shook their heads and looked at us suspiciously. No Karl Concon in the house. Pleas and threats were useless. The clerks remained taciturn and hostile. One said he had heard the name once, the others had never heard of him.
"Okay, let's get on with it," I said. "Kleine Freiheit next. Paris Hotel."
"That's a dump," said Bertie, "and I'm soaked to the skin."
"So am I," I said, and drove into the Kleine Freiheit. It was quiet here. I parked the car in front of the entrance that had a damaged electric sign: •OTEL PA##S, and saw an old man wearing a green apron and a visor cap. He was sweeping the debris the storm had blown up to the entrance. We got out and went into our act of being a couple of gays again, as we had been doing all along. It wasn't easy. We had to be careful not to overdo it
The man had stopped sweeping and was staring at the Rekord, then at us. His face was careworn, his gray-yellow moustache was poorly trimmed. "Good evening, gendemen," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Good morning, good morning," I said jovially, my arm booked in Bertie's. "We'd like a room. Where's the clerk?"
"Isn't feeling well, sir. Had to lie down. Ill take care of you."
"Very good. A room for an hour," said Bertie, in a deep voice. I was playing the male prostitute; he was the old pederast who had picked me up.
"Come with me, please, gentfemen," said the old man.
He went on ahead. A lamp with a green shade was burning on the counter. A steep flight of stairs led up to the first floor. Behind the counter there was a small room. The door was open. A man, fully dressed, was lying on his back on a cot, snoring loudly. When he exhaled, he whisded, and the stench of cheap liquor issued in a cloud from his mouth. The litde lobby stank of schnapps. "Is he ill?" I asked.
"Yes, very," the old man said, his voice expressionless. "Had to drink a lot of schnapps."
"Had to?"
"Because ill," said the old man.
The clerk was dead drunk; not even the explosion of an atom bomb would have roused him. The old man had gone to the key rack that hung on the wall behind the counter. This was the dirtiest hotel we had seen so far. "And please tell our friend, Herr Concon, that we're here."
"Concon?" said the old man.
"Karl Concon," I said irritably, and shivered. "Horrible weather! I'm freezing, Peter."
"Well soon be warm, sweetie," said Bertie.
"Is no Karl Concon here," said the old man.
"But there must be!" I said. "He asked us to come here. He's throwing a litde party. You must know him. How long have you been here?"
see
"Since seven, sir/'
"What are you? Russian?"
"Ukrainian," said the old man, and I felt cold. Hastily I told myself that I still had my feet on the ground, relatively speaking, and that I must not let this nonsense drive me crazy. "From Tchaplino. I was prisoner of war." Oh, my God! I thought. "I surrender with friends, then afraid they do something to me if I go home in '45. So I hide. Hear that at home all dead. So I stay."
"Always in Hamburg?"
"Always in Hamburg, yes, sir. Always here. Sankt Pauli. Just the same, don't speak good German. Am all alone. But this not interest gentlemen. I give you number twelve." He handed the key to Bertie, whom he had recognized as the one who would pay. The key had a small wooden ball dangling from it; the number twelve was stamped on it. 'Towels and soap upstairs. Twenty mark for hour. Is all right?"
Bertie laid thirty marks on the counter and said, "Karl Concon. A short, dumpy fellow."
"We called him Dumpling," I said, with a silly laugh.
"He's got to be here," said Bertie. "We have a date with him."
The old man looked at us, his eyes half-closed. "Fat?" he said sofdy, as if he was afraid of waking the night clerk, a quite unnecessary worry.
"Rather," I said, and laughed again.
"Pink shirt, crazy tie, perfume? Smell strong of perfume?"
"That's him," said Bertie.
"But his name not Concon."
"What is his name?"
"I don't know. He came seven, eight hours ago. Speak to Herr Wtflfert, the boss. But he not say anything about party. And he not give his name. Must be asleep now."
T doubt it," I said. "He's expecting us."
"I can't leave here," said the old man.
"Why should you?"
'To tell the gentleman. No phones in room."
"Doesn't matter," said Bertie. "We'll knock. We're old friends." He put another ten-mark bill on the counter. "What's the number of the room?"
"Sevent
een. And thank you very much, sir," said the old man, staring at me, his eyes wide.
"What's the matter?" My laugh sounded almost like a giggle.
"Nothing," said the old man seriously. "Nothing, sir."
"Come along, sweetie," said Bertie, and took my arm again.
We walked up the steep stairs and came to a narrow passage. The two dim bulbs that were burning showed that it had been cleaner downstairs. "Pfui!" Bertie said softly.
"Shut up!" I said. "We've got him, man. We've got him!"
"Yes. And what if he's not happy about it?"
"He'll love it," I said, and took the Colt out of my coat pocket.
"That being the case, I'd better join in the fun," said Bertie, and got the Hasselblad ready to shoot while we crept slowly along the passage. There was noise behind some of the doors—a girl's shrill cry, a man laughing uproariously, the sounds of a whip and the harsh voice of a woman. "Gee up, gee up, horsey! Let's see you run!"
We passed numbers twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen... and walked up to seventeen, Bertie with his camera and flash at the ready. I tried the knob. To my surprise, the door opened. Everything was quiet.
"It's me, Concon," I said. "Roland. The reporter from the camp. Engelhardt's with me. The man who photographed you. Don't try anything. The police are here, too. All of us have guns. If you have a weapon, drop it and turn on the light."
No answer.
"You're to turn on the light!"
Not a sound.
As if nothing could possibly harm him, Bertie stood in the doorway and took his first picture. The flash lit up the room for a second. "Good God!" he said, and felt for the light switch. There was one beside the door. He turned it on.
The room was small, the dirty brown wallpaper was peeling, the curtains were drawn. I saw a washbasin, two chairs, a table, and a brass bed. Karl Concon was lying on his back on the bed, fully dressed. Somebody had plunged a knife into his chest, up to the hilt. It was a bloody mess, even though the blood wasn't flowing anymore and rigor mortis had set in.
13
"Yes, I know," said the old man.
We were downstairs, standing in the entrance, sheltered from
the rain. The street was deserted, and behind us the sodden night clerk was snoring and whistling. The old man was very nervous—he wanted to be rid of us; but we had told him, as soon as we got downstairs again, that we'd call the police and he'd be in big trouble if he didn't answer our questions. And then we had shown him our press cards. This had scared him to death. He had really taken us for a couple of gays who had come to see Concon. He had told himself that we'd find the mess up there soon enough; he wanted nothing to do with it. He didn't want to talk to us, either, until we said we had to call the police. If he talked, maybe we could help him; otherwise, we'd nail him. There was more money in it for him, I said, and that brought him round.
"How much?"
"Five hundred."
"A thousand," he said. "If you don't mind, sir." A nice old man, our Ukrainian. We settled on eight hundred, and that he'd sign a release. So now we were standing in the hotel entry, freezing and questioning him.
"Well, first two men come," said the old man. "I think is around ten."
"What did they look like?"
"I don't know. I cleaning a room. I only hear voices. And steps in the hall. The voice of boss, too—Herr WGlfert. He go away right after that."
"Do you think W6lfert sent for the two men?"
"I don't know. Herr Concon frightened when he got here, very frightened. Everything happen fast, and secret. Herr WSlfert tell him, 'You be safe with me, Karl.'"
"Not safe enough," said Bertie.
"They friends, Herr Wtflfert and Herr Concon."
"Yes," I said. "You can see that." This man Wfllfert must have told the two men, whoever they were, of Concon's arrival. For how much? I wondered.
"What did the two men want from Concon?" I asked. "You listened, didn't you?"
"Yes," said the Ukrainian, without a moment's hesitation. "I surely get the eight hundred?"
"Surely. Here is four hundred to start with." I gave him four bills and he began to warm up to his subject.
"So then was big quarrel in Herr Concon's room. Men very mad at him."
"Why?"
"Because he don't get girl out of camp. I not know what camp, what girl."
'That's all right."
"But Herr Concon supposed to do it. Had been given job. Stop her from getting together with man here. This man's name is—is—can't remember right now. They say name several times, the two men who visit Herr Concon, God rest his soul."
"Don't worry about the name," said Bertie.
"Milka. Jan Milka! Now I remember," said the old man. He jumped because the drunken night clerk behind us had groaned and turned on his side, but almost immediately he began to snore and whistle again.
"Jan Milka. Very good," I said. "So this girl was not supposed to get in touch with him. Concon was told to prevent that."
"Yes. The men very, very excited. This man, Milka... must be very important person."
"Important for whom?" asked Bertie.
"I understand, for the Amis."
"For the Americans?"
"I don't know. Men don't say. Only that Herr Concon have spoiled everything, and things have been going well so far."
"What things?"
"Some business. This Milka have something to sell, that's how I understand. To sell to the Amis. Want more money all the time. Always asking more. Amis mad at Milka, but need him. Lives somewhere, protected."
"Protected by whom?"
"By Amis. Or by man who works for Amis."
"What Amis?"
"I don't know."
"What do you think?"
"Well, Milka Czech, say the men. Refugee. If he has something to sell to Amis, what can be? Political thing, I think. Men say Milka and Amis nearly agree; now Concon spoil everything. Milka must disappear fast, before girl come. Or reporter. That you, yes?"
"Yes," I said. "Where have they taken Milka?"
"Don't know. Men say where he safe,' is all. Girl here, reporter here. Men very angry with Concon. Say he must not leave room till they say so. Concon very much afraid. All the time
say 'Sorry, forgive me, sorry ' Also say, 'I work for you so
often and so well.'"
Just a minute, I said to myself. Something's wrong here. Concon had done a lot for the East, so why were these men from the East reproaching him for ruining the plans of the Amis? I asked, "What language did the men speak?"
"What you mean, sir?"
"Were they foreigners? Did they speak with an accent? Broken German?"
"No. Good German."
Things were getting more and more confused.
"And then?" asked Bertie.
'Then two men go, Concon lock his door. I just have time to hide in next room. Didn't see men. Went on working. Cleaning rooms. Seven rooms. In this time men maybe drink with clerk. One hour, two hours; Was drunk when I come downstairs. Men gone. Clerk asleep."
"You're lying!" I said.
"No. I swear I tell truth."
"You're not trying to tell us that you weren't so curious that you didn't go down once to see who the men were?"
"Don't want to hide anything, please. Was like that. I too afraid, so not go down until men gone."
"It's a he!"
"Is truth, sir."
"A lie!" said Bertie.
"Leave him alone," I said. "Nothing more we can do about it." And I asked, "What happened next?"
"People come. Men with girls and men with men. I very busy. A lot going on, if you please."
"But Concon was still alive when the two men left. You're sure of that?"
"Yes. Very sure. Hear him cursing."
"Then somebody must have killed him after the two men saw him."
"Yes."
"Who?" asked Bertie.
"Don't know. I swear, gentlemen, I don't know. Could be
anybody who come here. At least twelve men come, at least six girls."
"It couldn't have been any of them," I said.
"Why not?"
"Because Concon locked his door. But we found the door open. So he must have opened up for somebody he knew."
'That's right," said the old man, and jumped again when the clerk behind us coughed violently and brought up some phlegm. He coughed for quite a while, but finally he was snoring again.
"You didn't listen at Concon's door anymore?" I asked. "Not once?"
"Not once. Have to be down here. So much going on. Get quiet about hour before you come, gentlemen."
"And that's when you went upstairs."
The Ukrainian was silent.
"Well?"
"Yes," he said. "Was upstairs. Listened at door again. Was scary. No sound. Opened door and there he lie, on bed, in his blood. Terrible "
"And why didn't you tell us that when we asked for him?"
"Didn't want to be mix' up. Didn't know if gentlemen friends or enemies of Herr Concon. Was afraid. You understand? Am afraid now, very afraid."
"Of what?"
"Revenge. Because I tell everything. Men come back and kill me, too. I idiot! For eight hundred marks I risk my life. Idiot!" Now his voice was teary.
"Bertie, take a few pictures of him."
"Okay," said Bertie and took a picture of the Ukrainian, standing in the entrance of the hotel, pale and grimacy with fear. Then we took him along to where our rented car was parked. I made out the release and asked the Ukrainian to show his identification card, so that he wouldn't palm off a false name on me. The dirty card said his name was Panas Myrnyi, age sixty-nine, residing in Sankt Pauli, Schmuckstrasse 89, care of Schwilters. He wrote with difficulty: in fact, he couldn't really write at all. Only sign his name, he told us, and his signature looked like it.
"Where are the other four hundred?" he asked, as soon as he had signed.
"Wonderful people, those friends of your Fraulein," said Bertie, in English.
"Only in death," I said. "Irina thought the same thing."
"Oh, let's drop the nonsense!" said Bertie, still in English.
"That's fine with me," I said. "But you must admit, it is rather strange the way all these foreigners cross our path. All right," to Myrnyi, in German, "let's go," and the three of us walked back to the hotel. I called the nearest police station, the Davidswache, 274
The Traitor Blitz Page 30