Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘There might be something in that,’ he admitted, picking another cigarette and screwing it into his curious little holder. ‘But it’s going to take time to organize this kind of investigation. Naturally I assume that Heydrich will ensure the full cooperation of the Gestapo. I think that the highest level of surveillance is warranted, don’t you, Kommissar?’

‘That’s certainly what I’ll be writing in my report, sir.’

The telephone rang. Martin answered it and then handed me the receiver.

‘Berlin,’ he said. ‘For you.’

It was Deubel.

‘There’s another girl missing,’ he said.

‘When?’

‘Around nine last night. Blonde, blue-eyed, same age as the others.’

‘No witnesses?’

‘Not so far.’

‘We’ll catch the afternoon train back.’ I handed the receiver to Martin.

‘It looks as if our killer was busy again last night,’ I explained. ‘Another girl disappeared around the time that Korsch and myself were sitting in the café at the Deutscher Hof giving Streicher an alibi.’

Martin shook his head. ‘It would have been too much to hope that Streicher could have been absent from Nuremberg on all your dates,’ he said. ‘But don’t give up. We may even yet manage to establish some sort of coincidence affecting Streicher and his associates which satisfies you, and me, not to mention this fellow Jung.’

Saturday, 24 September

Steglitz is a prosperous, middle-class suburb in south-west Berlin. The red bricks of the town hall mark its eastern side, and the Botanical Gardens its west. It was at this end, near the Botanical Museum and the Planzen Physiological Institute, that Frau Hildegard Steininger lived with her two children, Emmeline aged fourteen, and Paul aged ten.

Herr Steininger, the victim of a fatal car crash, had been some brilliant bank official with the Privat Kommerz, and the type that was insured up to his hair follicles, leaving his young widow comfortably off in a six-room apartment in Lepsius Strasse.

At the top of a four-storey building, the apartment had a large wrought-iron balcony outside a small, brown-painted French window, and not one but three skylights in the sitting-room ceiling. It was a big, airy sort of place, tastefully furnished and decorated, and smelling strongly of the fresh coffee she was making.

‘I’m sorry to make you go through all this again,’ I told her. ‘I just want to make absolutely sure we didn’t miss anything.’

She sighed and sat down at the kitchen table, opening her crocodile-leather handbag and finding a matching cigarette box. I lit her and watched her beautiful face tense a little. She spoke like she’d rehearsed what she was saying too many times to play the part well.

‘On Thursday evenings Emmeline goes to a dancing class with Herr Wiechert in Potsdam. Grosse Weinmeisterstrasse if you want to know the address. That’s at eight o’clock, so she always leaves here at seven, and catches a train from Steglitz Station which takes thirty minutes. There’s a change at Wannsee I think. Well, at exactly ten minutes past eight, Herr Wiechert telephoned me to see if Emmeline was sick, as she hadn’t arrived.’

I poured the coffee and set two cups down on the table before sitting opposite her.

‘Since Emmeline is never, ever late, I asked Herr Wiechert to call again as soon as she arrived. And indeed he did call again, at 8.30, and at nine o’clock, but on each occasion it was to tell me that there was still no sign of her. I waited until 9.30 and called the police.’

She sipped her coffee with a steady hand, but it wasn’t hard to see that she was upset. There was a wateriness in her blue eyes, and in the sleeve of her blue-crepe dress could be seen a sodden-looking lace handkerchief.

‘Tell me about your daughter. Is she a happy sort of girl?’

‘As happy as any girl can be who’s recently lost her daddy.’ She moved her blonde hair away from her face, something she must have done not once but fifty times while I was there, and stared blankly into her coffee cup.

‘It was a stupid question,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ I found my cigarettes and filled the silence with the scrape of a match and my embarrassed breath of satisfying tobacco smoke. ‘She attends the Paulsen Real Gymnasium School, doesn’t she? Is everything all right there? No problems with exams, or anything like that? No school bullies giving her any trouble?’

‘She’s not the brightest in her class, perhaps,’ said Frau Steininger, ‘but she’s very popular. Emmeline has lots of friends.’

‘And the BdM?’

‘The what?’

‘The League of German Girls.’

‘Oh, that. Everything’s fine there too.’ She shrugged, and then shook her head exasperatedly. ‘She’s a normal child, Kommissar. Emmeline isn’t the kind to run away from home, if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry to have to ask these questions, Frau Steininger. But they have to be asked, I’m sure you understand. It’s best that we know absolutely everything.’ I sipped my coffee and then contemplated the grounds on the bottom of my cup. What did a shape like a scallop shell denote? I wondered. I said: ‘What about boyfriends?’

She frowned. ‘She’s fourteen years old, for God’s sake.’ Angrily, she stubbed out her cigarette.

‘Girls grow up earlier than boys. Earlier than we like, perhaps.’ Christ, what did I know about it? Listen to me, I thought, the man with all the goddamned children.

‘She’s not interested in boys yet.’

I shrugged. ‘Just tell me when you get tired of answering these questions, lady, and I’ll get out of your way. I’m sure you’ve got lots more important things to do than help me to find your daughter.’

She stared at me hard for a minute, and then apologized.

‘Can I see Emmeline’s room, please?’

It was a normal room for a fourteen-year-old girl, at least normal for one who attended a fee-paying school. There was a large bill-poster for a production of Swan Lake at the Paris Opera in a heavy black frame above the bed, and a couple of well-loved teddy bears sitting on the pink quilt. I lifted the pillow. There was a book there, a ten-pfennig romance of the sort you could buy on any street corner. Not exactly Emil and the Detectives .

I handed the book to Frau Steininger.

‘Like I said, girls grow up early.’

‘Did you speak to the technical boys?’ I came through the door of my office at the same time as Becker was coming out. ‘Is there anything on that trunk yet? Or that length of curtain material?’

Becker turned on his heel and followed me to my desk.

‘The trunk was made by Turner & Glanz, sir.’ Finding his notebook, he added, ‘Friedrichstrasse, number 1933.’

‘Sounds cock-smart. They keep a sales list?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. It’s a popular line apparently, especially with all the Jews leaving Germany for America. Herr Glanz reckons that they must sell three or four a week.’

‘Lucky him.’

‘The curtain material is cheap stuff. You can buy it anywhere.’ He started to search through my in-tray.

‘Go on, I’m listening.’

‘You haven’t read my report yet then?’

‘Does it sound like I have?’

‘I spent yesterday afternoon at Emmeline Steininger’s school – the Paulsen Real Gymnasium.’ He found his report and waved it in front of my face.

‘That must have been nice for you. All those girls.’

‘Perhaps you should read it now, sir.’

‘Save me the trouble.’

Becker grimaced and looked at his watch.

‘Well actually, sir, I was just about to go off. I’m supposed to be taking my children to the funfair at Luna Park.’