Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Mavric tapped his pencil on the desk again. ‘Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?’

‘Did you know Lieutenant Hendel? The officer whose death I am investigating?’

Mavric sighed, flipping the pencil onto the desk. ‘Like I told the others, I knew of him. He was a guest here. He behaved himself. He tipped well. He was well liked. He wasn’t any trouble.’

‘Whom did you tell?’

Mavric frowned at him, a retort clearly on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. ‘I don’t know who they were.’

‘Describe them.’

The owner’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t know,’ he repeated. He cast his eyes around his little office. ‘One of them was a cop. One of ours. Tall, dark hair.’ He rummaged on his desk a moment, held up a card. ‘Padelin,’ he said, looking up at Reinhardt. ‘He was here earlier today. The other was one of your Feldgendarmerie. Reddish hair. Shorter than you. Glasses.’ He shook his head. ‘He came on Sunday. Really, nothing else.’

Reinhardt stared back at Mavric a moment longer. The description sounded like Becker, but the important thing was the Feldgendarmerie were at least a day ahead of him, and Padelin had been and gone as well. He nodded. ‘The police. They took someone?’

‘Zoran Zigic. One of the waiters.’

‘They tell you why?’ Mavric snorted and shook his head. Reinhardt could guess, but he would find out tomorrow. ‘Very well. Thank you for your time.’

Mavric nodded, coming around the desk over to the door and opening it wider for Reinhardt. His evening suit was loose on him, the sleeves bunching over his wrists and ankles, as if it were made for someone taller. ‘My pleasure. I am sorry about Hendel, but you understand, I don’t want any trouble here. This is a good club.’

Reinhardt stepped out into the corridor and paused, looking at the two closed doors. He turned back to Mavric. ‘Those are the private rooms?’ Mavric nodded. ‘Show me the one Vukic used.’

Mavric’s mouth tightened, but he pulled a small bunch of keys from his pocket and squeezed past Reinhardt to open the door to the right. There was a table, low, polished, surrounded by a curved sofa and other comfortable chairs, and there was a thick carpet on the floor. It was light, though, not because it was not red, but because of the long mirror that hung on the back wall to the right of the door, and the one that covered a large part of the ceiling. To the left, there was a window, and Reinhardt realised he was looking into the club from behind what he had thought was a mirror. It was a one-way glass. People could be in here, private, intimate, and yet look out there and observe the goings-on in the club. Reinhardt walked up to the window, looking at the backs of the band as they played. The sound of their music came through faintly. The room was well soundproofed.

Reinhardt turned around, seeing himself reflected in the mirror along the back wall, seeing the bar behind his reflection. ‘Vukic liked this room in particular?’ he asked, remembering the bedroom in Ilidza and the mirrors on the wall and ceiling there.

Mavric looked startled. ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. ‘She was often a guest in here. She enjoyed her privacy. Whenever she was out there, she was always on show, she would say. In here, she could relax. Be herself.’

Reinhardt glanced around the room again, not having to try very hard to imagine what might have gone on in here. ‘Zoran,’ he said, the moment the thought occurred to him. ‘Zoran, the one the police took? He worked in here, didn’t he?’ Mavric took a slow step into the room, looking blankly at him, and nodded. Reinhardt gave one last look around the room. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said again, as he made for the door. It sounded so inane.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Mavric as he stepped backwards into the corridor to give Reinhardt space. His hand strayed out, hesitating. ‘Please, err… Captain,’ he said, glancing at Reinhardt’s collar tabs. ‘Please, I do not want any trouble. There will not be trouble for me? Because of this?’

Reinhardt looked at him a moment. Mavric’s eyes blinked hard around a fixed stare. ‘I do not know,’ he said, turning away. He paused at the door back into the club and looked back. Mavric looked haunted, a man in clothes too big for him. ‘I would worry more about Zoran,’ he said, pushing open the door.

The noise was louder. The band had left its little stage and was playing around one of the tables. It was filled with drunken Ustase, who were getting stuck into a folk song. Glasses in their hands, they sang with gusto, their throats and faces straining at the words. Reinhardt ran his eyes around the club quickly, watching as heads turned his way, some staring, some turning away. From the bar, Dragan motioned him over with a twitch of his head. ‘That SS, the one I say of. He is here. He is asking about you.’

Reinhardt nodded his thanks. He turned and began making his way back through the tables, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the maitre d’ where he stood by his lectern in front of the frosted glass of the entrance. He was passing the last of the tables when a waiter glided in front of him, round silver tray held against his chest as if to shield him. The man inclined his head slightly and gestured with his free hand. Reinhardt frowned at him, faked a small smile, and shook his head as he made to move around the side of the waiter. The man took the smallest of steps to block him. ‘Sir. Please,’ he said. This time, he made his gesture into an invitation, his arm extended to point across the back of the club, into the far corner. ‘One of the guests would like to talk to you.’

Four men were sitting there. The light was dim, but Reinhardt could see that at least two of them were SS. There was nothing for it but to follow the waiter, who made to pull out a chair for him, but one of the officers hooked a boot around the chair leg and stopped him. The waiter froze, unsure of what to do, then backed away. Reinhardt did the only thing he could do and came to attention before them. In the quick glance he gave them, they were senior to him.

The officer who had hooked the chair was SS. His collar tabs bore the oak leaves of a Standartenfuhrer – a colonel in the army – and his left cuff, where his arm rested on his table with his hand around a glass of beer, had a Prinz Eugen band. Seventh SS. Recruited mostly from the Volksdeutsche, Reinhardt remembered, the ethnic Germans. Sudetens. Hungarians. Yugoslavs. They were German, according to the Reich’s definition, but they were touchy about it. The man was long limbed, obviously very tall, with limp blond hair and eyes of a pale blue – so pale, they were hardly visible in the dim light. His cheeks, though, bore a high red flush, maybe from the heat, or alcohol.

‘Captain. What are you doing?’ The voice was languid, a slur discernible in it, and an accent, just as the barman had said.

‘Standartenfuhrer,’ said Reinhardt. ‘I am on official business, conducting an investigation.’

‘Into what, exactly? You’ve got the whole place astir with your questions.’ The accent was Croatian, maybe Slovene, Reinhardt was sure of it.

‘The murder of a German officer, sir.’

The officers glanced among themselves. The two SS grinned. The fourth man was an Ustasa, a squat lump of a man crammed into his black uniform like rubbish squeezed into a sack. ‘Is that all you’re doing, Captain?’ asked the Standartenfuhrer, as he sipped from his beer glass. His right hand rested heavily on the butt of his pistol, thumb tucked tightly behind his belt, and his fingers tapped a rapid tattoo on the holster.

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ replied Reinhardt.

‘You’re asking about Marija Vukic, as well.’