A Trace of Smoke (Hannah Vogel)

by Cantrell, Rebecca

  He’d been found naked, so the murderer must have stripped him before dumping him into the river. Why? Ernst wore distinctive, hand-tailored dresses for his shows. They would have led the police right to the tailor, and then to the man who paid the bills, Rudolf von Reiche. I shivered. Even if the killer had been a stranger to Ernst, he must have known that one did not buy evening dresses for a man two meters tall at Wertheim Department Store.

  He’d been in the water for a few hours at most when a Berolina tour boat fished him out. The tourists got to see a side of Berlin they had not paid for.

  The taste of blood in my mouth startled me. I was biting the inside of my cheek. I willed my jaw muscles to relax. After closing Ernst’s folder, I paged through the others without reading them.

  I stuck Ernst’s folder back in the pile and tapped it on the counter.

  “Thank you, Fritz,” I called.

  “Always glad to be of service.” The hall teemed with people hurrying to lost-and-found or the passport office. I pushed my way upstream against the human tide. My eyes filled with tears. Tears for Ernst. Tears for Anton. Tears for myself. Tears for a prostitute I’d never met. Two dead. Two cast adrift. Anton’s only safe harbor was me, and I was drowning too. I would sort out what to do with him. I cleared my throat and swallowed. The time for tears had gone. It was time to act. I would find out who killed Ernst, and I would bring him to justice.

  13

  An unusually small man dressed in riding clothes stood near the pictures in the Hall of the Unnamed Dead, scanning each one. He looked familiar, with curly hair and exotic skin. As he neared Ernst’s picture, I realized who he was.

  “Francis!” I called.

  Without turning, he ran. He darted up the hall and slipped through a crowd of people. I had never seen anyone move so swiftly.

  I walked as quickly as I could without attracting attention, but when I reached the back door he was gone. What was he doing here?

  Still thinking about Francis, I strolled the few blocks down to the newspaper, wondering if my eyes had deceived me.

  Inside the newsroom, the clack of keys greeted me, the sounds of writers typing furiously, proud each time a bell dinged at the end of a line. I hurried to pour a cup of the vile coffee. Even that would be better than the taste of blood in my mouth.

  Cup in hand, I walked through swirling smoke to open the windows. I inhaled the outside air, which smelled only of manure and automobile exhaust; a bouquet compared to cigarette smoke. I sat at an empty desk and looked for Paul or Maria. They were nowhere to be found. Unusual for both to be gone so early in the day. Had they resumed their romance? In their heyday, they’d barely come to work. Back then I was happy that Paul had found someone, but now I wished it had been anyone but Maria.

  I sat down at a battered typewriter and rolled in my paper, savoring the familiar clicking sound as I turned the drum. I had no new sensational trial. The rape story had finished early. For the first time in years, Peter Weill had nothing to say. I’d spent my research time fencing with Rudolf and verifying his story. Good for my curiosity, bad for my journalism.

  Still, I had a typewriter and paper. No sense in letting that go to waste.

  Dear Fritz,

  I know that this seems fantastic, but you would only be receiving this letter if my suspicions had some truth.

  I then typed details of my conversation with Rudolf, my suspicions that he had killed my brother, that he had killed Anton’s mother, and that he would kill me. Even to me, it sounded foolish. Although I understood Rudolf’s anger at Ernst’s infidelity and believed him capable of a quick crime of passion, I had trouble believing he could have killed Ernst with one blow. He had no military training, and I doubted he picked up anything heavier than a fountain pen most days. Even if he had killed Ernst, why kill Sweetie Pie? That was no crime of passion.

  I typed up everything I knew, adding a note asking that Anton be delivered to my sister Ursula. Bad news for him. She was no one’s idea of a nurturing mother, but she was his only living relative. As difficult as she was, living with her was preferable to an orphanage. Then I signed my name. I sealed the documents in an office envelope and wrote “In the event of my death, deliver to Fritz Waldheim at the Berlin Alexanderplatz Police Station.” I felt paranoid, but Ernst was dead, Sweetie Pie was dead. And I was the only one who had made a link between their deaths. So far.

  The smell of cigarette smoke and burnt coffee was all but forgotten as I moved into the world of my story. I wrote of a woman visible only in the brief moment when a man picked her off the street. Then she became desirable and earned money and notice, until she returned to the street again. In death, Sweetie Pie lay alone, nameless, clutching the card of an aristocratic lover, a man who identified her body at the police station but stayed out of official reports, a man with an important name, a rich man.

  I hoped Herr Neumann would have no time to read through the story. He’d pull that line as slander, although I knew better than to use Rudolf’s name. I did “accidentally” capitalize the word Reich, matching as it does von Reiche. Only a lazy typesetter would miss it, but I could always hope.

  Perhaps it would trigger an investigation, if Fritz read it in conjunction with my letter. If I were killed. I snorted. Now all I had to do was die, then Rudolf would be sorry. I felt like a twelve-year-old, mentally viewing the attendees of my imaginary funeral, thinking they were sorry that they had treated me badly.

  “You’re looking rather odd,” Paul said. I looked around for Maria, but she was gone. He handed me a cup of warm coffee. Mine had long since gone cold.

  “I try.” I sipped the coffee and made a face. “Will you hold this for me?” I handed the envelope to Paul.

  He leaned against my desk, his long elegant legs angled toward the window. He shifted to the right, putting his weight on the leg that had never been wounded.

  “What is this?” Paul asked, reading the outside. “ ‘In the event of my death’?”

  “Probably nothing,” I said. “Paranoia.”

  “You’re not the paranoid type.” Paul scrutinized my face. He stood and came around to the back of my desk.

  “Everyone can be, under the right circumstances.” I stood as well.

  “Not Peter Weill,” he said.

  “I have to go.”

  Paul put his hand on my arm, over the bruises concealed by my long sleeves. “Hannah?”

  “Stay out of it, Paul,” I said. “It’s the only way you can be of use to me.”

  He took his hand off my arm and bowed slightly. “I’d rather be of use to you while you’re still alive.”

  “We do not always get what we want, do we?”

  Hurt flickered across his face, but was replaced by a studied politeness. “Indeed.”

  “You are a great friend,” I said. “But—”

  “Paul!” shouted a reporter from across the room. “I need you over here.”

  Paul held up one long finger. “Just a second.”

  “I cannot explain,” I said.

  “Does this have to do with the rape case?” he asked. “And that new man you are seeing?”

  I shook my head. “First, I am not seeing him anymore. Second, it has nothing to do with him.” I thought about his Friday invitation. I would not go out on a boat with him. Not at all. I had no time for frivolous pursuits.

  Paul lowered his voice to a whisper. “With Sarah?”

  “Only indirectly,” I said. “And that’s all the information you will get from me.”

  “Paul!” called the other reporter. “It will just take one second.”

  “That’s all I’m getting so far,” Paul said. “Don’t think I’m giving up.”

  He slipped the envelope in his jacket pocket and walked across the room to the other reporter. Before he came back, I sneaked out the side door of the newsroom.

  I had to pick up Anton before Fritz got home from work.

  Before I finished knocking on Bettina’s door, Anton opened it
.

  “You returned from the hunt.” Dropping his bear, he threw himself at my legs. “The brave is pleased.”

  I bent and hugged him. Bettina had trimmed his hair properly and dressed him in a pair of short pants and a singlet. He looked like an ordinary boy. Small and pale, perhaps, but nothing like the dirty ragamuffin I’d seen at my door the night before.

  “Return of the chief,” Bettina said, with a smile from the doorway. “Quite a greeting.”

  “Usually no one notices when I come home except the cat.” I scooped Anton in my arms. “We must be off,” I said. I did not want to meet Fritz after he found out about Anton. He would ask hard questions about Ernst. He would know the birth certificate was a fake, and he would want answers. He would not be as easy to put off as Paul.

  “Please can we take the cache of cookies?” Anton gripped my hand. “I made them all by myself. Didn’t I, Auntie Bettina?”

  She smiled and led the way to the kitchen. “You certainly did, Little Eagle.”

  She slipped a glass jar filled with soup into a canvas bag and added a loaf of her special bread and two apples. Finally, she wrapped a handful of cookies in a warm dish towel and placed them on top. “You can take this home for a big supper, in case you forgot lunch,” she said. “Anton loves it.”

  “I do,” Anton said. “Auntie Bettina said it’s like the stew the Indians used to make.”

  “I had no idea.” My stomach growled, reminding me of my missed lunch. I’d had nothing but coffee since Bettina’s scone that morning.

  “Chicken and dumplings,” Bettina said, winking at me. “A staple on the prairie.”

  “Thank you, Bettina,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Nor I without you, Hannah.” She gave me a hug. “And now I don’t know what I’d do without you either, Anton.”

  She stroked his hair and stuck a small picture book in his hands. “For bedtime,” she said. “In case Hannah has no good books.”

  Anton fell asleep on the bus, holding his bear and his picture book. He had insisted that a brave carries his own supplies. I watched the neighborhoods change from the neo-baroque Wilhelminian apartments in Bettina’s world, to the newspaper district with its assortment of modern and humble buildings, and finally to the sooty brick tenements crammed together in a mishmash around Hallesches Tor, and home.

  I pulled the cord to signal the bus to stop and gathered everything up, including the sleeping boy. It was heavier than I wanted, and Mitzi did her best to get in my way as I entered the house, but I could not bring myself to wake Anton. He was an orphan now, the same as me.

  When I turned to close the door with my foot, I glanced outside. A small figure slid gracefully into the doorway across the street. Francis? I slammed the front door and hurried upstairs, locking my apartment door carefully.

  I carried Anton in and put him down on the bed. He did not stir so I held my fingers under his nose, to make certain he was breathing, as I used to do with Ernst when he was an infant.

  I stared out the window in my dark kitchen for several minutes. No one waited in the street below. Mitzi twined around my ankles, yowling for her milk. I had been imagining things, I decided firmly, turning on the light and feeding her.

  I stroked Mitzi while she drank her milk, her fur warm and soft under my fingers. Her throaty purr was the only sound in the kitchen. Hungry myself, I sliced Bettina’s bread and opened the jar of her treasured dumplings. The soup was still warm, and the smell of onions and chicken wafted up. Mmm. Treasure was right.

  Treasure.

  Mother’s jewelry case. She’d called it her secret treasure chest, because of its special compartment. Mother kept her most valuable pieces there. I set the case on the table, thinking back to the secret compartment Mother showed me when I was a small girl. How had it worked? The case had a false bottom that could only be opened when you closed the case, tilted it forward, rapped it on the left side, opened it back up, and pulled a tiny gold loop in the left corner.

  I went through the steps, tugged at the gold loop, and lifted out the red velvet false bottom. Brightly colored feathers filled the hidden compartment. Clever. That would muffle the sound if anyone shook it. What did Ernst have worth hiding there?

  I picked out the feathers. First I found two of Mother’s necklaces: a diamond pendant and a heavy gold locket. He must have stolen these pieces before Ursula could get to them. I felt a thrill of fierce pride. Well done, Ernst. It was wonderful to see them again after I’d given them up for lost.

  But Ernst was more clever than I. He’d hidden the necklaces in the bottom of the case. A bottom Ursula had never noticed, perhaps because she had no interest in Mother, wanting only to be Father’s chosen one.

  I sprang the locket open with my thumb. It contained a picture of Ernst at two years old and a lock of fine blond hair. He’d been so beautiful as a child. I remembered the sunny day I’d taken him to the photographer and the way he’d sat, serious about his picture, wanting to look just right, even then. I kissed the locket and tears welled in my eyes. I took a deep, shaky breath. I needed to be clear-headed in case something here gave me a clue that would help me find Ernst’s murderer.

  Both necklaces were valuable and could be sold in a pinch for food, though I would be loathe to do so. I weighed the locket in my hand. I hated to part with it again, but food for a hungry child is more important than sentiment. I set the jewelry on my battered kitchen table and withdrew more feathers.

  Hidden in the far left corner was a masculine-looking ring. I lifted it out and gaped. It was gorgeous. Two golden snakes with tails intertwined formed the back of the ring. In their fangs they held a giant square ruby that glistered in the light. The red light hypnotized. Power emanated from the stone. I shook my head. Ridiculous.

  It could not be real. I had never seen a stone that large except on a movie screen. I laughed aloud. I was uncertain that I’d seen a stone that large on a movie screen either. Its size was absurd. Only royalty could flaunt something like this. But it was exactly the kind of ring that a status seeker like Ernst would wear, even if fake. Mitzi jumped onto my lap and kneaded my dress. I stroked her snowy head absently.

  Where did the ring come from? It was not Rudolf’s style. I bet that he gave Ernst the more decorous onyx-and-diamond pieces. Modern and almost masculine, but not quite. Besides, if he gave it to Ernst, why would Ernst hide it?

  Who else could have given it to him? His rich soldier? If it was real, no wonder he hid it. But it fell beyond a soldier’s budget. I wondered what other admirers he had. My hands became ice. What if he had stolen it? I pictured him sneaking out of the bedroom of some rich man, helping himself to the contents of the night table on his way.

  I shook myself, set Mitzi on the floor, and stood. The ring was fake. It was too large to be real. And yet I turned it over and over in my fingers. An inscription inside was too tiny to read. Tomorrow I would take it to a jeweler, a friend of mine and Sarah’s. I might also take the onyx-and-diamond ones that were outside of the secret compartment. I’d like to see what he could make of them, where they came from. Perhaps I could trace the man or men who had given him the more valuable pieces.

  But if they were valuable, why had Rudolf given me the case? He must not have known about the secret compartment. I could think of no sinister reason he would have knowingly given me expensive jewelry.

  Pulling out more feathers, I found a diamond-and-ruby bracelet, and a golden cross set with rubies on a fine gold chain. If they were real, they would be worth enough to keep Anton and me for months. I angled the jewels to and fro, watching them catch the light. I felt like a child playing pirates, except that I’d uncovered a real treasure chest. Such beautiful things, jewels. Never in my life had a man given me a jewel. Walter had only given me a simple gold engagement ring, promising to replace it with something nicer after the war. He never had the chance. Yet Ernst had several pieces. He’d probably owned and pawned more.

  D
iamonds and rubies were perfect for him. He loved the luxury of diamonds, and red was his signature color. He’d always wanted red clothes as a child. He ate red food, if he could—apples, rare steaks, beets, red potatoes instead of white ones, strawberry ice cream. The color mattered more than the flavor.

  Luckily Father approved of red. After all, the piping on his uniform was red. What if Ernst had fancied pink? Wishing for a magnifying glass, I picked up the large ruby ring and tried again to make out the inscription.

  “That is my father’s snake ring,” piped a tiny voice from the bedroom doorway.

  I turned. “It is?”

  “I saw it on his finger,” he said, walking sleepily into the kitchen. “I’m hungry.”

  “What do you know about your father?” I filled a bowl with warm soup for him.

  “His name is Ernst,” Anton said.

  So Anton thought that Ernst was his father. That seemed to make it true then. Why would Ernst act as father to Anton otherwise?

  “And he will take care of me.” Anton climbed onto a kitchen chair. “He is rich.”

  I’d never thought of Ernst as rich before, but from Anton’s perspective I guessed he was.

  “What about your mother?” I set a spoon next to the bowl.

  “You are my mother.” He sat at the table and picked up his spoon. “Auntie Sweetie said that someday she would take me to my mother and she did.”

  I opened my mouth to deny the relationship, but no words came. “Let me get you some bread,” I said and spread a slice of bread thickly with butter. I watched him eat, twirling the ring around my finger. I was as close to a mother as he had now, poor child.

  What if Sweetie Pie was not his mother either? Perhaps she told the truth when she said that she was only his aunt. Perhaps he had a real mother somewhere.

  After I tucked Anton back in bed, I returned to the kitchen, stuffed the jewelry among the feathers and closed the secret compartment. Even if only the pieces from Mother were real, they were valuable. I placed the jewelry case back in the bottom of the box and piled old newspapers on top. My treasure buried, I, too, went to bed. It had been a long time since I’d had valuables in the house, and I tossed and turned with worry. I must learn the value of the jewelry, to see if it needed more safeguarding than I could provide. I fell asleep thinking of sinister figures creeping nearer, one doorway at a time.