But it wasn’t any of his business, and he didn’t need to make it his business. Instead, he’d keep himself occupied doing odd jobs around the museum. That was better than staying cooped up in the cottage all day.
The phone’s loud jangle startled him and he cringed, dreading to hear who was on the other end.
‘Professor Koenig, this is Police Chief Thompson.’
Anxiety clutched his throat. ‘Yes?’
‘I need you to come down to the station right away.’
‘You’ve found the diary?’ A slim chance, but he grabbed it.
The policeman’s voice grew terse. ‘No, pal, we ain’t found it. Just get down to the station as soon as you can.’
‘Why?’
‘I think you know why.’
‘But, how could I—’
The line went dead, and Max stared at the receiver. The witch hunt had begun.
* * *
What did Dad call it? Monday morning quarterbacking: the realization that you’d made the wrong decision, but if you’d only known the results of said decision, why, you could have made the right one.
She couldn’t return to October 1943 and rebuff Rafe’s advances, but maybe she could get out of this whole mess with Max before it got out of hand. Getting up the gumption to tell him that she needed to break her promise, however, would be difficult.
Jenni wandered through the museum, straightening pictures, dusting figurines, tidying when there was nothing to tidy, and rehearsing what she’d say to him. But it sounded exactly like what it was: a bunch of excuses.
It didn’t matter. She had to do it, had to sever the connection now. He could still work at the museum, yes, and she’d take care to leave a wide berth around him. But she couldn’t help him with this whole diary mess. She just couldn’t. With the FBI snooping on him, it was just too dangerous.
As the clock struck 10 a.m., she screwed up her courage, told Celia she intended to pop outside for a quick break, and ducked out of the museum. She squinted against the bright morning sun and wished for the thousandth time for it to melt all this cursed snow. The rays tried in vain to penetrate the cold, but at least it made the snow sparkle and the world didn’t look quite so gloomy.
Just as she went down the stairs, she saw Max climbing onto his bicycle. She quickened her pace. It would be better this way, if she told him now, when it would be short and sweet and there would be no awkward pauses.
‘Professor!’ she called, hurrying over to him. ‘Do you have a minute?’
Max pulled down the scarf covering his mouth. ‘I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs Fields. I’ve been summoned to the police station.’
That jolted her. ‘Have they…?’
A quick shake of his head stopped her. ‘No, they haven’t found it.’
‘Then why do they want to talk to you? Haven’t you already told them everything?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know the answer. The police chief wants to see me as soon as possible.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘He said I’d know why, but I don’t.’
This wasn’t any of her business. She couldn’t do this… even though he had no one else. No one. They’d never find the diary, and then the FBI would arrest him, maybe take him to an internment camp, all for something he was innocent of, and she’d get caught up in the whole mess, and who knew where that would land her?
Tell him, that insistent, rational voice said. Tell him now before you lose your nerve.
‘I’m coming with you. We’ll take my car.’
* * *
For some reason, Jenni’s mouth twisted in annoyance as they drove downtown, but he could only assume it was directed at the police chief and not at him. At least he hoped so.
Located on the first block of Main Street, the Meadow Hills Police Department sat in a nondescript red-brick building. The windows contained several war posters, one orange with bold black lettering that Max paused to read. Warning from the FBI: the war against spies and saboteurs demands the aid of every American… When you suspect the presence of enemy agents, tell it to the FBI.
Blood rushed into his neck and cheeks and he tried to keep his head high. His fingers itched for a cigarette.
Jenni gasped. ‘Sweet Mary Magdalene.’
She pointed towards the Stars and Stripes Café next to the police station. The American flag had been ripped down and lay on the ground. War posters were torn and tattered, scraps tumbling down the pavement and the street. But the worst… words painted in red on the windows along with black swastikas. Max felt the colour drain from his face.
Tod dem Verräter. Deutschland uber alles!
No. This could not be happening.
‘Look,’ Jenni said. ‘It’s not just the café. They got the newspaper, the city offices, the hardware store…’ Her eyes met Max’s. ‘What do those words say, professor?’
Acid crawled up his throat and he swallowed it back. ‘Death to traitors. Germany over all.’
‘Oh.’
In that one syllable, he heard the question, felt the doubt. Surely she didn’t think him responsible. But that’s exactly why he’d been called here. If the police thought him capable of taking the diary and lying about it, they’d believe him capable of this.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Jenni murmured, briefly touching his shoulder, ‘and I know you didn’t do it.’
‘I doubt Chief Thompson will agree with you.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Just remember, his bark is much worse than his bite. Come on.’
They walked into the police station with its white brick walls and yellow overhead lights. He heard the clack of a typewriter in another room and smelled the bitter aftermath of stale cigarettes. Someone laughed, a light sound so at odds with the sobering environment. The officer at the front desk eyed him with suspicion, already recognizing Max before he’d even introduced himself. Max tried to act naturally as they followed the man into Chief Thompson’s office, and he was absurdly glad Jenni had offered to accompany him.
Focus, old boy. One false move and he could very well land in jail, evidence or no.
But a niggling thought wouldn’t be silenced. What if the message scribbled on those windows was meant for him?
When Thompson saw Jenni, he frowned. ‘What are you doing here, Mrs Fields?’
She flashed those incredible white teeth of hers and put her hand on her hip. ‘I’m merely representing the museum’s interests, Victor.’
Her complete change of character astonished Max, as did her use of the chief’s first name. When she turned that same stunning smile on him, it reminded him of Barbara Stanwyck’s saucy character, Sugar Puss O’Shea in Ball of Fire. He’d watched it at Lincoln’s Varsity Theatre one afternoon, and had completely fallen in love with Sugar Puss. Good thing he didn’t wear a tie or else he’d be loosening it about now to suck some air into his suddenly tight chest.
Her charisma wasn’t lost on the chief either, and he held out a chair for Jenni and even managed to avoid being unpleasant to Max – for all of five seconds.
The chief glared at him and waved his hand. ‘Is that your handiwork outside?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Care to tell me what those words say?’
He repeated what he’d told Jenni. The statement hurled him back to Berlin, to concrete walls with white paint, to red flags draped over window sills and boots marching in step down Unter den Linden, to swastika leaflets papering fences and loudspeakers blaring Hitler’s hypnotic speeches.
To see those words written in this small town shook him to the core.
‘Well?’ Thompson demanded. ‘Want to tell me what you know about this?’
The noise and images faded in his mind, replaced by equal parts fear and frustration.
‘I know nothing about this.’
‘Why do I find that hard to believe?’
Jenni folded her arms and glared at the police chief. ‘Good grief, Victor. Who are you, the Gestapo?’
Ignoring her, Tho
mpson’s gaze never left Max. ‘Professor Koenig, you may not know this, but no one in this town has used the German language in more than twenty-five years. In fact, it’s against the law to do so.’
‘I am aware of this law, and may I say that I find it very sad. But that does not mean I am guilty.’
‘Well now, I don’t know,’ Thompson said, tapping his pen on the desk, and forcing Max to clench his right fist to keep it from shaking. ‘First the diary disappears, now someone vandalizes the town. I don’t believe in coincidences.’
Jenni rolled her eyes. ‘Coincidence or not, there’s a little thing called evidence.’ She pulled out her compact and a tube of lipstick, expertly applying a coat of bright red to her full lips, and expertly distracting both men in the process. ‘Do you have any evidence, Victor? Or are you going to disregard the very bedrock of our legal system that says a man is innocent until proven guilty?’ She snapped the compact shut and Thompson flinched.
‘The words were in German,’ he growled.
‘And since Professor Koenig speaks German, you think that’s evidence?’
The policeman shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Yes.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s graffiti and smashed signs. Who likes to do those things? Bored kids.’
‘It was in German,’ Thompson repeated.
‘There are German words in my son’s Captain America comic books! It’s not that hard to find despite this town’s urge to keep it out.’
‘They’re not just some words. It’s a threat.’
‘A threat to who?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s a threat! It has to be, and the professor is the one behind it!’
There. He’d finally said it, finally accused Max out loud. And even though Max had known the policemen thought him guilty all along, to hear him say it sent red hot pokers through his head.
‘Where is your proof? Did you see him do it? What is his motive?’ Jenni demanded.
Thompson was losing the fight and they all knew it. Max watched the older man’s jaw muscles clench and unclench, but the chief wasn’t done swinging yet.
‘When things don’t add up, I pay attention, and things ain’t adding up. I think the professor here is stirring up trouble. Everything started happening when he showed up.’
‘He’s been living in Nebraska for years and hasn’t caused any problems,’ Jenni said, clearly exasperated. ‘So why now?’
Max tried not to fidget at that. Goldberg and the FBI might not agree.
‘To my thinking, it’s because he needs money.’ Victor leaned back in his desk chair until it touched the wall behind him. ‘Mrs Stanwick’s diary would be worth a pretty penny to the right buyer.’
‘And how does that explain the graffiti?’ Jenni said dryly.
Max’s body ached for a cigarette, but he knew how it would look to the policeman. Thompson would think, He’s nervous. Look at him, shaking. He can’t even sit here without lighting up. That’s because he’s guilty.
The chief wrinkled his nose and sniffed. ‘Tell me again why you’re here, Mrs Fields?’
‘To keep you from arresting an innocent man, apparently.’
The chief sighed and looked at her as he would a toddler. ‘Nobody is arresting anybody.’
‘Yet,’ she snapped.
The chief let the chair drop back onto the floor with a thud. ‘I think you need to stay out of this.’
Max recognized the warning in his voice and knew Jenni had crossed into dangerous ground, but she didn’t appear to notice. Or perhaps care.
‘No, I will not stay out of this. You have no evidence whatsoever to support your absurd conclusions. Have you asked the store owners if they saw anything?’
‘We think it happened during the night.’
‘You think? You don’t actually know? So that means you haven’t talked to anyone about this except for Professor Koenig?’
Red blotches of embarrassment stained the chief’s cheeks. ‘Well, no.’
‘You’re not even considering other suspects, are you?’ Her tone was scathing now, and Max couldn’t help but admire her, even if she made the chief more irritated by the second.
‘Why would Professor Koenig steal the diary, then vandalize the town? That doesn’t make any sense. And what about the man I saw leaving the cottage? Why aren’t you looking for him or the car that he drove away in? Have you ever considered he may be behind the vandalism too?’
The chief blustered and blurted out more ridiculous excuses. Jenni threw up her hands. ‘Honestly! You have a good, solid lead, and the longer you spend trying to pin this crime on Professor Koenig, the colder the trail gets. Did you even try to find this other man? Was my detailed description not good enough for you?’
‘Looky here, Mrs Fields,’ Thompson sputtered, ‘you don’t need to tell me how to do my job.’
‘Then do your job. I’m not even a trained detective and I know more about how to solve a crime than you do. Maybe you should pick up one of Mrs Stanwick’s mysteries and get some pointers.’
‘You’ve got some nerve, talking to me like—’
‘That diary is the property of the museum,’ Jenni interrupted, ‘and is an important historical artifact vital to understanding Mrs Stanwick and her work. I hope you understand that.’
Thompson’s lips thinned. ‘Once that diary is recovered, it will be the property of the police department until the investigation is complete.’
‘Are you saying you will deliberately withhold it from the museum?’
‘Only until the investigation is complete,’ Thompson repeated. ‘And that’s final.’
‘Something tells me your investigation could last months,’ Jenni shot back, ‘especially if you exhibit the same judgment you’re using right now.’
Thompson threw his pen on the desk. ‘I think that’s enough.’
Jenni continued talking as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Maybe I’ll just start asking people if they saw anything, see what they say.’
‘You do that and I’ll bring you up on charges of disturbing the peace.’
Max saw sparks flame in Jenni’s eyes. ‘Don’t you dare try and bully me, Victor!’
Before Thompson could respond, Max shot to his feet. ‘Chief Thompson, if there is nothing further, I think Mrs Fields and I should be going.’
The policeman blinked, almost as if he’d forgotten Max was there. Max gently nudged Jenni with his foot and she reluctantly stood, straightening her gloves and ignoring them both.
‘You’re free to go, but I’ll be in touch,’ Thompson said. He pointed a finger at Max. ‘Don’t you leave town.’
Forcing his stiff jaw muscles to work, he smiled. ‘Of course.’
Taking Jenni’s elbow, Max steered her out of the room. They walked out of the police station without saying a word, and it was only when they were in the car and Jenni had pulled away from the curb that Max relaxed. He took out a cigarette and lit it, his body moulding into the seat as he inhaled the smoke.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me for interrupting you and the chief,’ he said after his heart had stopped racing.
‘That man is an idiot!’ Jenni fumed. ‘He thinks you’re guilty, no matter what the evidence says! I’ve a good mind to write to the mayor and tell him what an incompetent boob he has running his police force, but the mayor is as bad as Victor.’
With her pink cheeks and eyes flashing like blue diamonds, Jenni resembled an avenging ice queen. He would hate to be on the receiving end of her wrath.
‘You handled him very well, though,’ Max said.
She shot him a wry glance. ‘Thanks. Growing up with three brothers gave me a backbone, I guess. Plus I’ve known Victor all my life. He’s only a bully when he’s at work. At home, his wife runs the joint.’
Max laughed and it eased the tension in his chest. ‘Well, I’m glad you decided to come along. I don’t know if I would have fared as well by myself.’
‘Probably not, especially considering the
y already had you pegged as the vandal and the one who stole the diary.’
‘Do you think the two incidents are linked?’
‘They must be. I do agree with Victor on that. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise.’
He stared out the window at the quaint houses, the tidy front porches and well-swept pavements. The war had come to Meadow Hills, all right, but not in the way any of them had expected.
‘I just don’t understand what the connection could be,’ Jenni continued. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
No, it didn’t, but what did make sense anymore? If that message had been for him, why put it in downtown Meadow Hills? No, anyone wishing to threaten him – like Goldberg – wouldn’t have used such a roundabout method. They’d proved as much in the past. But, disappointed with the FBI’s lack of action, Goldberg or his friends could be trying to frame him. He’d definitely not put that past them.
‘Are you in a hurry to get back?’ Jenni asked. ‘I thought we’d go visit someone.’
‘Now?’ He wanted to go home, smoke a few cigarettes, maybe even open that full bottle of whisky, and drown out the world for a few hours.
‘Best time is the present, I always say.’
He suppressed a groan. ‘Are you always this impetuous?’
‘Usually.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Kooky’s place.’
‘Excuse me?’
Jenni grimaced. ‘Sorry. We call him Kooky, but his name is Franz Kohl. He was the pastor of the Lutheran church that burned down during the Oktoberfest in 1918.’
‘He was the pastor?’
‘Well, they didn’t rebuild the church. In fact, there isn’t a Lutheran church in town anymore, if you can believe that.’
He could.
‘So what does he do now?’
‘About six months after the fire, he had a stroke, and when he was finally well enough to work again, they made him the caretaker of the cemetery.’ Her jaw clenched. ‘An insult, if you ask me, but since he didn’t want to leave Meadow Hills and he could no longer be a pastor, he was content to do this. He volunteers at the museum sometimes. I think he might have some insight into this whole mess.’
The Stranger From Berlin Page 10