She came down the steps. He almost didn’t recognize her because she was wearing a new coat. Obviously she had bought it in the West recently. Gone was the terrible thing put together and sewn at home that she had worn the previous Sunday. If that wasn’t a sign that she wanted to please him… For whatever reason. He felt like running up to her and folding her in his arms. But he did not dare. What he did do was bow lightly and try to act like a movie actor.
“Allow me, Miss, you’re so elegant…” He took her hand and, bowing as if to kiss it, sang “I’m kissing your hand, my lady, I’m so charming, my lady, I wish it were your mouth.”
“Don’t you think of it, I’m getting a sore on my upper lip: my aunt in Warnitz has already slaughtered the Christmas goose… and all that fat…”
“Too bad, I just brushed my teeth.”
“Well of course, Christmas…”
“Other parts I wash even less often.” The words had come out unbidden. She did blush a little. But maybe it was the cold. “I can’t imagine you like that.”
“I know, I look like someone who goes to the movies all the time.”
“Please don’t think that you’re taking me to the movies tonight.”
“Of course not, there’s the axe waiting for me in Karolinenhof…”
She gestured that they should be off. “Come, Hannes Seidelmann is waiting.”
“But he doesn’t know we’re coming.”
When they saw him at work in Skalitzerstrasse, the telephone exchange secretary was sitting at his desk in front of the control panel; he seemed so devoted to his task, so upright as he sat filling out forms that Bacheran could not, as much as he tried to, imagine him killing his brother. But still, there were cables, wires and cords of every color and length here.
When Seidelmann looked up and recognized them, he did not in the least way seem scared. On the contrary he seemed even more apathetic. Was he mourning his brother?
In any case Bacheran gave him the soft treatment. “We just wanted to see how you are doing and whether you’ve remembered something else.”
“I’m not doing well…But last night I couldn’t sleep and I did remember that he kept talking about two money changers who had promised him a favorable rate. But then they cheated him out of 200 marks West – he realized it and he followed them. On the S-Bahn, all the way to Friedriechstrasse. But then in the waiting room they ran off and vanished suddenly.”
“Did he notice anything in particular about them?”
“One of them, he said, must have been shot in the head during the war, he still had a hole.”
Bacheran was surprised. The answer had come so fast and so precise, maybe too fast, as if Seidelmann was trying to steer them away from himself, bringing a mysterious OTHER man into play. He would have liked to comb through his apartment on Wycliffstrasse with a few specialists to search for traces of blood – but he didn’t have any legal grounds to do so. What to do…? On a sudden intuition, he asked Seidelmann whether his brother had by any chance told him about a trip to Heiligensee, to see a friend or an acquaintance.
“Yes, Heiligensee, in Schulzendorf or Konradshöhe, he mentioned something there.”
Bacheran pictured Hermann Seidelmann sitting in Peter Kartlow’s garden house and Kartlow coming up behind him holding a clothesline in his hands…They had not been able to find anything more about Kartlow. A theory was forming in Bacheran’s mind…In the Tagesspiegel of December 14, an article reported that among the political refugees from the Soviet occupied zone, there were not only criminals but also agents: they worked as agitators in the West and tried to convince people that life in the Soviet Union and the GDR was paradise. What if Hermann Seidelmann belonged to one of those groups and what if Peter Kartlow’s place in Heiligensee was his safehouse? Anything was possible. And it was also possible that they had a serious fight.
In any case, for the time being they had no case against Hannes Seidelmann and the only thing they could do was thank him for the tip about the money changers and take their leave.
Outside, as they walked to the station, it looked like snow. At the news stand the Telegraf advertized in giant letters: 95 MILLION MARKS FOR BERLIN NOW. And beneath the title it read: Funds released from Marshall Plan/ General Taylor: Berlin is on the way up again.
“That’s how the differences between East and West will keep increasing and more and more people will come over to the Western sector,” Bacheran said.
“I certainly won’t!” Helga exclaimed.
That sounded so final that Bacheran almost shuddered. How could they become a couple if she lived in the East while he lived in the West? That he should move to East Berlin was totally out of the question. He would prefer to live in a jail – a Western jail at least.
He bought a paper and gave her half of it as they sat in the U-Bahn. He read his section. Anything to avoid talking to her. That put some distance between them again. It was not going to work out between them, the way things stood.
What was in the news? In Berlin two stores had been broken into. Pandit Nehru had returned to India after his trip to England and America. In Warsaw, the trial of four Frenchmen accused of ‘espionage’ had begun. He was not able to read beyond the titles because of Helga sitting next to him. As her elbows moved, so did her thighs. His right hand was so close to her belly, less than 20 centimeters. But maybe it would take him years to get closer. In an attempt to distract himself from these thoughts he turned to the ads. Rugs make the right gift. Friedebold, Friedenau. Kwiet’s medicated bandages for blisters, boils, wounds, herpes, etc. - Conny Barth: Inter zone transportation. – Libby’s Milk, so creamy!
“Wittenbergplatz. Let’s get off here.” They wanted to transfer from the B line to the A line even though it was barely worth it. “I know Zoo is the next station, but riding through horror, no thank you: nothing but ruins and empty sites cleared off, the steppe.”
At Zoo station, they set about asking people about the ‘beautiful woman’ and about the money changer with the head wound. Fifteen minutes later they found a taxi driver who was able to help them. “Talk to that one there under the clock.”
They thanked him, but then weren’t sure what to do. Helga as an officer from the East was not allowed to interrogate the man and Bacheran, as a trainee, was not yet authorized to. All they could do was have a chat with him.
“Excuse me, sir…” Bacheran went up to the money changer. He had a large head, almost hydrocephalic and Bacheran couldn’t help thinking cynically that the bullet could hardly have missed such a target. And yet the man was very squat, almost a midget. What a moon like face! He looked placid and cunning at the same time. Over his right eyebrow there was the crater left by the bullet. Frightening. “I have 2000 East marks to exchange.”
“Got to see them first.”
“Ah…well.” Bacheran admired the man’s instincts. He had immediately figured out that the two of them were after something else altogether.
Helga must have understood too because she immediately went on the attack. “No, we don’t want to change money, we want money from you, no exchange: you’re going to return the 200 West marks you stole from my brother.”
“What brother?”
“You know, Hermann Seidelmann.”
When the man heard the name Seidelmann it was like an electric shock: he bolted from his spot, ran to the subway entrance and up to the platform. Just then, a train to Erckner rolled in. “Let’s go after him,” Helga shouted. “Maybe he’ll do us a favor and go all the way to Friedrichstrasse – then I can arrest him.”
“First we have to make the train.”
They did but it was hard. Bacheran, once again, was slower than his physically fit partner and he got pinned between the car doors when they slammed together violently. Helga barely managed to pull him inside the car.
“Thank you,” Bacheran panted. “Let’s hope he’s actually on the train.”
“I think he is. I didn’t see him on the platform at any rate.�
��
“Maybe he jumped onto the rails and hid under the train.” Bacheran enjoyed the ghoulish drama unfolding. “Now he’s under us, chopped to bits. ‘Just like his victim’, the newspapers will say, if he’s really the one who murdered Seidelmann.”
Tiergarten. Helga pulled the car doors open and leaned out to see if the money changer had jumped off and was running to the exit. Bacheran did the same on the other side of the car.
“Stand back!” said the conductor.
Nothing. They didn’t see the man with the head wound either at Bellevue station or Lehrter station.
“He’s going to try at Friedrichstrasse station, like Seidelmann,” Helga said. “That’s where there’s the most traffic, it’s the biggest labyrinth, that’s where he has the best chance of evading us.”
“Maybe he lives near the station.”
“Such parasites live only in the West.”
Oh God, Bacheran thought, a true believer! Still he decided to avoid saying anything.
Seconds later they reached the first stop in the Eastern sector. Helga was proved right: this time, the money changer jumped off the train three cars ahead of them and ran to the Reichstag-Riverbank exit. Helga pulled out her badge and went up to two Vopos. “Colleagues, help me make an arrest. The man over there is a possible murder suspect.”
They blew their whistles and patrolmen from the Markgraf precinct streamed in. Bacheran did not move, he didn’t want to hinder the chase. He didn’t feel like much of a hero, he was even a little worried, but after all, he was in a foreign country, at least according to the GDR. He hung behind the pursuers but was close enough to hear them shouting. The man had jumped into the Spree in desperation and he looked like he might drown in the cold waters. Finally he was rescued and taken to the Eastern Police hospital.
“Well,” said Bacheran, “If that isn’t an admission of guilt…”
Helga refused to agree. “We are going to investigate him thoroughly.”
“And I cannot be present…?”
“No. Plain and simple, no.”
“Can I expect another plain and simple answer from you…?
“I know: you want to invite me to the movies.”
It was his turn to blush a little. “No, I don’t dare. Not anymore. Or maybe yes? What about the Kiki, at 225 Kurfüstendamm, I think. They’re showing To throw your life away with Brigitte Horney.”
“If I’m not on duty.”
“But when you’re with me you’re necessarily always on duty.”
“I have to go now…” She hurried over to her colleagues’ patrol car that was slowly driving off.
Bacheran stood staring at the car for a long time. How would it end? Dead in the water, probably.
He then walked away from the river bank and got back on the S-Bahn. But wait, he could get to the office much easier with the U-Bahn. He could take the C line to down town and then the A line to Fehrbelliner Platz. No. Stop. Wouldn’t it be much faster if he took the S-Bahn to Zoo and then transferred to the U-Bahn…? God, he had no idea what he was doing. As the song went: Love is a powerful force… He wasn’t able to make a decision and since there was no fortune teller to answer his questions, he asked the station attendant. She of course, indicated the second solution. So he was off.
In his office in Fehrbelliner platz he found a note on his desk: “Please call Mr. Menzel.” He called immediately.
“Thank you for calling back, dear sir. The note on my own desk says ‘bordello’.”
“Are you looking for some fun?”
“I want you to come with me.”
“The strict moral principles of my mother do not allow such a thing, she would disown me. Seriously, what’s this about?”
Menzel turned serious. “We’ve received an anonymous letter… I’ll read it to you… I don’t wish to be a tout but this is a murder so… A friend of mine recently visited a prostitute on Augsburgerstrasse and he was almost throttled in the coil of a whip. The lady plies her trade in front of the Casablanca club and goes by the name ‘Thea the Whip’. A very beautiful woman. She used to work as a saleslady in a butcher shop on Müllerstrasse. I think that these two facts could be of interest to you in your investigation into the murder of Hermann Seidelmann … and so on. What do you think of this?”
“First, I think the author of this letter probably experienced the whip around his own neck – and second, we should investigate this lead. Someone told me that Seidelmann intended to buy toys for his children but that his brother and sister found a note in his suit that said: ‘Beautiful woman at Zoo’. This could be Thea the Whip. What strikes me is that the anonymous author of the letter particularly stresses her beauty.”
“Let’s meet in front of the Casablanca club in half an hour.”
“OK.”
There was a light frost and the weather was crisp and dry so Bacheran decided to walk the approximately two kilometers.
Requesting a travel voucher and being granted one was always a painstaking procedure and could be characterized as humiliating. Bacheran arrived in time, the inspector was even earlier.
“Bacheran smiled.” You look like you couldn’t wait to get here.”
“Warning from my wife: you can whet your appetite but you’ll eat at home. But… I’ve already been inside the bar and I asked where the lady could be found. In Belzigerstrasse…”
“Ah… yes, there’s always a lot of intercourse… ah … traffic there… the streetcar depot.”
Menzel did not laugh, after all Bacheran was not among his superiors. “Her real name is Dorothea Stetzsch.”
“She should have kept that name: ‘Stet: sex’. It fits”
Again, Menzel did not show much taste for this kind of humor. “You know public transportation well: What’s the best way to Eisenacherstrasse…?
“Well, as a matter of fact, we don’t need to take a train, the best way is to walk. Over there, along the Fugger, it leads into Eisenacherstrasse.”
Dorothea Stetzsch did them the favor of living not far up the street but right at the corner of Motzstrasse. Menzel had also been given the house number. The building looked like something of a medieval fortress. “You can see the kind of money this business brings in,” Menzel said as they went up the steps. “Even if it’s only a knock up business.” The bell pull was copper, in the shape of a beautiful lion’s head and to ring it you had to push up a U-shaped ring. Bacheran imagined he was pulling on a whip cord.
A low, husky voice was heard inside saying: “Who is that so early in the day…?”
“No customer,” Menzel answered. “Police, homicide.”
“Anybody can say that.”
Menzel held up his shield to the peephole. “Inspector Menzel and Mr. Bacheran from the State Attorney’s Office.”
The door opened and Bacheran’s expectations were entirely fulfilled. This woman was really beautiful, she was fantastically attractive. In spite of the curlers in her hair, in spite of her big blue bathrobe. He got a glimpse of her thighs … such thighs were worth the money. Or would have been. Plus she looked strong, Thea the whip, powerful, full of energy. A dominatrix as the books said. Was that what Seidelmann had been looking for and had he found it?
Even Menzel seemed to be struck dumb. “Yes …. Uh… why are we here…?”
“Want to know why men like to come to me?” Dorothea sounded like a cooing dove.
“We are here on strictly official business,” Bacheran said trying his best not to let her see how much he would have liked the opposite. Menzel pulled a photograph out of his pocket: it showed Seidelmann at his desk. “Was this man a client of yours?”
“Is he the one they cut up in pieces?”
Bacheran was startled. She had made the connection so fast. Yet there had not been much in the West Berlin newspapers about the Seidelmann case. Death and homicide were no very rare thing in Berlin these days. And no picture of the victim had been published anywhere. “How do you know who the victim was?”
“Well honey, do I have to tell you what this black box on the little table there is for…?” she pointed to the telephone. “Obviously, I am informed when something happens. Plus his brother and sister have already been around here looking for him. They came long before you did.”
Once again Bacheran was surprised. This time because the woman spoke perfect high German and it seemed difficult to reconcile that fact with her identity as someone selling her flesh. He asked her to explain.
She laughed: her laughter was extremely seductive, ten times more than the laughter of the ‘Blue Angel’. “Oh these literary hacks… I once said that I sold my flesh… they made me into a ‘woman who sells her flesh’. Cute! No, I’m a trained actress.”
That explained her success with men, thought Bacheran. But what motive could she have had to throttle Seidelmann and throw his dismembered body into the rubble of Berlin? He thought out loud: “Try this for size, Mrs. Stetzsch… You and your clients have money, a lot of money; now, men come to you to make their fantasies come true. It works best when there’s cocaine or something of that kind. And this is what Seidelmann wants when he comes to see you and he expects to be satisfied. Your fantasies are also involved, fantasies of murder. Throttling men, men who treated you so badly. And poor Seidelmann must stand in for all of these men and play his role.”
Dorothea Stezsch’s smile showed appreciation and contempt in equal measure. “Not bad, young man. A plausible enough story. Give me a few months and you could go far. All the way to the top. You could become State Attorney, even Attorney General.”
She stopped laughing when Menzel, entirely by chance, knocked his elbow into one of her closets: it opened wide enough for the two officers of the law to investigate without a search warrant. A clothesline tumbled out. It was long enough to wrap around a man’s neck.
That evening, when Bacheran and Helga met at the movie house, he was able to inform her that they had made an arrest: Dorothea Stetzsch had been taken into custody.
Cold Angel: Murder in Berlin 1949 Page 12