March nodded, disappointed he hadn’t thought of it first.
“Maybe the snow, sir? Maybe the jeweler closed early?” someone said behind Neumann, who half turned and responded, “Go find out.”
The policeman who had spoken dropped his shoulders and left the shop. Neumann crossed to the body of the tailor and looked at him.
The man had fallen straight down, crumpling on his legs. His eyes seemed to stare back at Neumann. Neumann looked at the wound. It was a good shot, center of the chest.
“Sudden death, probably gone before he hit the ground.” Neumann looked at March. “He dropped straight down. He wasn’t turning away—no momentum except the one that gravity gave him. If he’d been pleading, fighting, or running I’d expect a defensive wound at least, possibly a raised hand.”
March looked at the corpse and then back at his boss.
“But the blood, on the carpet there.” March pointed to a spot to their left, next to the display cases. “I don’t think it’s his. There must have been a struggle.”
Neumann knelt down by the blood.
“Torch.” He raised his hand and clicked a finger.
Someone obliged and Neumann pointed it at the carpet, found the edge of the bloodstain, then traced it with the beam of the torch all the way around until he came to a stop, back at where he’d started.
He leaned forward, shone the beam into the middle of the stain, and then with his other hand placed his fingertip onto the carpet into the middle of the spotlight.
He pushed down and for a moment his finger cast a shadow like an actor on an empty stage. Around the tip, fresh wet blood was forced through and up to the surface; Neumann lifted his finger and looked at it, then held it up for March to see before wiping it next to his foot.
He stood up.
“Somebody else was hit. They might have even died here—there is enough blood.”
“Someone else?”
“They bled out, or they were bleeding out. I’ll wager an artery. There’s no way they walked to a car.”
“But if there was no struggle?”
“I didn’t say there wasn’t a struggle; I said the tailor didn’t struggle.”
“But if you leave the tailor, why would you take the other person?”
Neumann looked at March and then back at the blood.
“I don’t know.” He stared at the stain and then called over his shoulder. “We need to check the hospitals, see if anyone has been brought in with a gunshot wound or bleeding heavily.”
Two of the detectives behind him, one English and one German, nodded and left the shop to make the inquiries.
Neumann knelt down again and then looked at the display case in front of the assistant.
“Why is that case open?”
All eyes turned to the case. Sure enough, the glass door hung open with keys still in its lock.
March looked into it.
“Handkerchiefs and ties.” He looked back at his boss.
Neumann stood up.
“They used a tie to stop the blood, a tourniquet.”
March looked back down, and then back at the blood before nodding.
“They used it to keep him alive.”
Neumann knelt, looking at the blood from the back of the shop, a new angle. Fresh perspective.
It was then that he saw it.
Slipped under the cabinet next to the blood: a sliver of white beneath the dark wood.
He stepped around the blood and tried to pull whatever it was out of the tiny gap. He cursed himself for biting his nails, then dug in his pocket for his penknife.
He used the blade to flick at the card, easing it forward until he could finally pull it free from under the cabinet.
“No,” he finally said, turning to look at March and holding up a German citizen’s identity card. “They used it to keep her alive.”
CHAPTER 10
ROSSETT HAD TRIED to stop drinking many times before.
And failed.
He’d battled the bottle and ended up bruised, but that last time—that time he thought he’d done it. He’d seen the light at the end of the tunnel, so close; he almost made it.
It was the boy.
Losing a child had made him start drinking, and finding a child had nearly made him stop. They hadn’t found his son’s body after the resistance bomb at Waterloo, and although he would never say it, Rossett was glad.
He knew what explosives did to people; he’d wiped enough blood off his face and picked up enough pieces to know that some things should never be seen.
And the body of your son was one of those things.
The boy’s mother had died that day as well, and Rossett missed her dearly, an aching loss that called across the years.
He could remember her voice.
Someone had once told him the first thing you forget when a loved one dies is the sound of their voice. Rossett knew that wasn’t true.
He could close his eyes and listen to his wife singing in the kitchen, he could hear her laugh, and he could feel the whispering breath of her words in his ear anytime he was alone.
But the boy, his dear sweet boy: the boy he’d never touched, never heard, never met, and never known.
That was why the pain was greater; the boy would never know how much Rossett loved him.
The boy would never hear him say it.
And then came Jacob, a little Jewish child hiding in the dark, praying to be saved.
A bit like Rossett himself.
Rossett had nearly died for Jacob. He’d done the right thing for the first time in years, and as a result he thought, for a moment in time, that he could love again.
He’d saved the child, and a woman he thought he might love, and in doing so he’d lifted the cloud and seen the sun again.
He’d felt human again.
He’d done a good thing; away from the misery of his job and his loneliness, he’d done a good thing.
There had been one glorious, aching afternoon. He’d come out of hospital and rounded up the collection of half-empty bottles that littered his room and his life.
He’d thrown them into the bin at the back of his lodgings. He knew it was over, he knew the cork was back in the bottle.
He’d woken up.
He realized what he’d been doing—to himself, to the Jews, to his soul. He was going to change, do better, and earn forgiveness for his sins by doing good work. He would become a policeman again; he would protect the weak, not persecute them. He couldn’t turn the country around, but he could turn himself around.
He had purpose, he had his soul again, and he knew, more than anything else, he was never going to drink again.
It wasn’t long before he also knew he was wrong.
First it was beer to take the edge off the pain of the damage he’d caused to his body.
Then it was a Scotch to take the edge off the pain he’d caused to his mind.
He’d been a fool to think the wounds had gone just because he couldn’t see them. They were still there, waiting in the darkness when he fell asleep. The dreams returned, the faces, the blood, the shouting; the tossing, the turning, and then the worst part.
The staring at the ceiling in the small hours.
He couldn’t remember the exact date the bottle reappeared. But he could remember sitting on the edge of his tossed bed, the bottle cool, smooth in his hands as he rested it against his forehead. His body covered in sweat, but still shivering in the light from the streetlamp outside.
The soft ticking of the clock in the corner of the room.
Then the rattle of the bottle on the edge of the glass.
The burn of the Scotch.
The back of the hand across the mouth to cover the cough.
He drank that night to push himself off int
o the river of sleep, and then again when he’d gotten tangled in his nightmares once more.
He was numb when he passed out.
He’d been numb many nights since.
He wasn’t numb now.
The knocking sounded far away on the other side of a dream. His head banged with it as he slid, squinting, into consciousness. Rossett felt like he was rising up from deep water, and then he was awake, and the knocking was still there, along with the banging of his hangover.
At his door.
He coughed, rolled onto his side, and coughed again, clearing his throat.
“Okay, I’m coming.”
The knocking stopped.
Rossett grabbed the alarm clock off the chair next to his bed: 11:35 P.M. He was surprised. His head felt like he’d been asleep all night. He must have started drinking earlier than he thought. He put the clock back down, knocking some loose change onto the bare floorboards.
There were three more knocks on the door.
“All right!” Rossett shouted as he kicked his legs out from under the blankets. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered to himself as he padded across the room.
Subconsciously he touched the barely healed scar on his stomach as he opened the door.
The hallway light was on and the glare made him squint.
Koehler stood on the landing in a black woolen civilian coat, open over black suit, white shirt, and black tie, black leather gloves, pale skin, and blond hair.
Immaculate.
Worried.
Rossett didn’t speak. He was surprised to see his boss and his friend; he’d never visited before. He stepped back and let Koehler in. As he closed the door the light on the landing went off. He flicked the switch for the light in his own room and considered shouting down to his landlady for tea, but then decided against it.
He still had some whiskey left.
Koehler was standing by the window looking out. Rossett rattled another smoker’s cough and then ran his hand through his sleep-stuck hair, suddenly aware that his room smelled musty.
“What’s up?” His voice was gravelly and he coughed again as he scratched his scar.
“I’m sorry to wake you. I need your help.” Koehler’s English carried the barest whiff of a German accent; he turned from the window toward Rossett. “Jesus, John, you look terrible.”
“Thanks.” Rossett looked around for his undershirt. He found it over the back of the solitary armchair and pulled it over his head. The muscles in his stomach pulled tight as he raised his arms, a legacy of the hundreds of sit-ups he was doing to help repair the damage.
The pain felt good.
“Do you want a drink?” Rossett gestured toward where his whiskey had been the last time he had seen it.
“Are you drunk?”
“Mostly,” Rossett replied as he made another attempt with his hair.
“No, I don’t want a drink. Can I sit?”
Rossett nodded and redundantly pointed to the armchair. Koehler passed close and Rossett thought he heard his boss inhale as he went by, checking for the smell of booze. Rossett saved him wondering: he sat down on the bed and picked up the bottle that had fallen on the floor from his hand when he had collapsed a few hours earlier.
He unscrewed the top, then looked across at Koehler.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve a hangover brewing.”
Koehler didn’t reply and Rossett took a drink, then scratched at his scar again, this time through the shirt.
“What’s up?” Rossett said after half the Scotch had gone down.
Koehler stared at Rossett and then reached into his coat and pulled out his cigarettes.
“Are we friends, John? I need to know before I tell you. I need to know, because if we’re not, I’ve no right to burden you with this.”
Rossett shifted slightly.
“You’re about the only friend I have.” Rossett took another sip and reached for his own cigarettes off the chair. “I don’t know what that says about you or about me, though.”
Koehler shook his head. “I don’t know what to do.”
Rossett paused midway through opening the cigarettes.
“What?”
Koehler ran his hand through his hair again and then shook his head. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry, go back to bed.”
He pushed himself out of the threadbare armchair, and as he crossed the room Rossett stood up.
“Ernst, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s okay, go back to bed.”
Koehler had the door open; his shadow reached the top of the stairs.
“What’s the matter?”
Koehler looked out into the darkness of the landing. Someone was snoring behind one of the boardinghouse doors. The smell of boiled cabbage, body odor, and sweat filled his nostrils.
He looked back at Rossett.
“They have Lotte and Anja, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Who?”
“Lotte and Anja have been taken.”
“The resistance?”
“No.”
“Who is it?”
Koehler looked at his friend, his only friend.
“I’ve been driving around, trying to think. I don’t know what to do, I’m . . . I’ve no right to be here. I’ve no right to ask you for your help.”
Rossett shook his head.
“Close the door.”
Koehler paused, then stepped back, shutting the door quietly. Rossett sat down on the bed once more, giving Koehler some space.
Koehler sat, removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth, ran a weary hand over his eyes, and shook his head.
“Lotte and Anja are being held hostage. If I want to see them again I have to do something.”
“What?”
“I have to get a Jew from Cambridge and bring her to London. I’ve got a name and a place of work, and that is it.”
“And then?”
“When I have her, I get further instructions.”
“From who?”
“I collect a parcel or an envelope from a post office.”
“So you don’t see who the instructions are from?”
“Yes.”
“Why you?”
Koehler shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve got . . . I had my family here? There aren’t many officers with family in London; it gives them leverage over me, plus it’s my job to move Jews. I’m the obvious choice.”
Rossett nodded.
“Can you think of anyone you know who might be connected to this?”
“No.”
“How did they get in touch with you?”
“At my flat, a message with a number. I called it, and they told me to go to a call box by Hyde Park. I went there, got another number, and spoke to them.”
“They wanted you out of the flat in case your line is monitored.”
Koehler nodded. “It’s an open secret the Gestapo monitor calls, and after last year, the trouble with you and the boy . . .”
“Jacob.”
“Jacob . . . well, let’s just say I’m sure to be of interest to them.”
Rossett took a drag of his cigarette and looked at the whiskey.
“Did you see them drop off the note? Did you get a description?”
“I saw one of them, across the street; I didn’t get a good look.”
“Was he in uniform? Did he have a car? Did anyone else see him?” Rossett was coming awake, turning back into a policeman.
“No uniform, black car, no make, nobody else has a description.”
“That’s a lot of nos.”
“I know.”
Rossett looked for the saucer he used sometimes as an ashtray; he tapped his cigarette and then le
aned across to pass the saucer to Koehler.
“I can’t believe the resistance would just walk up to your front door and leave a note. Tell me everything you can think of, everything: voice, sounds in the background on the call, everything.”
Koehler passed back the saucer and paused, staring off into space. Rossett gave him as long as he needed, silently watching with his head still pounding behind his eyes.
Eventually Koehler broke the silence. “He spoke German and English.”
“A lot of people do nowadays.”
“No, no. It was excellent German, perfect . . . almost. There was an accent.”
“What accent?”
“I don’t know. It sounds crazy, but . . . he sounded like an actor.”
“An actor? Which actor?” Rossett looked at the Scotch again.
“Not a specific actor. He sounded like . . . like one of those ones in a movie, you know? The ones who try to sound American, or who are playing Americans?”
“Yes?”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t trying.” Koehler looked up. “I think he was an American.”
Rossett shook his head. “A Yank, are you sure?”
“The more I think about it . . . yes, I think he was an American.”
“The Americans are allies of Germany, especially since Lindbergh got into power. Why would they be doing something like this?”
“Maybe it’s nothing to do with the government. They have anti-Nazi factions.”
“It explains how they got to you,” Rossett added. “The diplomatic quarter is right next door.”
“They could drive right in and right out and all they would get is a salute.”
Rossett drew on his cigarette again; it crackled in the silence of the room. He let the smoke fill his lungs as he slowly scratched at his scar.
“Why do they want a Jew?” he finally said, staring at the wall, his fingers moving back and forth, tugging at his undershirt.
“I don’t care. They want her, they can have her.”
“Who is it?” Rossett looked up.
“Ruth Hartz. She works at Cambridge University.”
“Doing what?”
“Physics.”
“Physics?” Rossett stopped scratching his belly. “Why do all of this? Kidnap your family, force you to go there and get her? It would easier to go and get her themselves.”
The British Lion Page 8