Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Reinhardt swallowed hard and walked up to the door. He knocked softly, then again, harder. The door gave under his hand, and he saw as the light flickered over it that the frame around the lock was broken, shards and splinters of pale wood showing against the black. A woman’s voice called something, and he stepped into a cluttered room, piled with costumes and dresses, shoes and boots of all kinds all over the floor. A pile of boxes was stacked haphazardly in one corner, and as he came in farther, he saw in the other corner a small table with pots and bowls of makeup. A woman with long blond hair sat staring at him in a mirror under a pair of lanterns that hung from the ceiling, the light inking the cracks that crazed the rough plaster of the walls. A second woman looked up at him from a low stool next to the other, her dark, heavy features of the sort Reinhardt automatically associated with Gypsies. Full lips, liquid eyes, and thick black hair she was combing into a tress over her left shoulder, letting part of it hang over her forehead, over her eye and cheek, and Reinhardt was fairly sure it was all in order to hide the bruise that blackened her left temple.

There was silence as he looked between them. The Gypsy lowered her hands and straightened her shoulders, sending a necklace of coins sliding and tinkling over what was, Reinhardt realised, a quite substantial bust. Whether it was because she saw his gaze slide down then back up, or because of who he was, or because she would have done the same to any man who walked in on her, a fire bloomed in those big eyes.

‘Ko si ti, i sto zelis?’ The challenge in her voice was unmistakable.

Reinhardt did not bother turning to Hueber for a translation. He took another step into the room. ‘Do either of you speak German?’ he said, looking between the two of them.

The women exchanged glances, and the Gypsy looked about to speak when the blonde put out her hand. ‘I speak German,’ she said softly. The Gypsy subsided, but the fire remained bright in her eyes as she crossed her arms under her considerable breasts. ‘What do you want? Didn’t you cause enough harm before?’

‘Your names, to start with,’ replied Reinhardt, ignoring the shy;accusation.

The blonde sighed, gently. ‘I am Anna. This is Florica.’

‘The barman at Ragusa, Dragan, said I should talk to you,’ said Reinhardt. The Gypsy frowned and muttered something darkly under her breath. ‘You knew Lieutenant Hendel?’ Anna nodded. ‘You are aware that he has been killed?’ The blonde nodded again, face blank. ‘How did you know him?’

‘He would come to the club, often. He liked our music.’

‘That was it?’

Anna shrugged. ‘He said he liked me.’ She pursed her lips, looking straight at him. ‘He was kind. Generous. We spent some time together. How much detail do you want?’

‘You do not seem too surprised at his death.’

‘Your chain dogs told me. Last night, when they came looking for Peter.’

Reinhardt noted the colloquial reference to the Feldgendarmerie, but what surprised him more was the fact that Becker had told him nothing this morning. ‘Hendel’s first name was not Peter.’

Anna frowned slightly. ‘I know. It was Stefan. They were not looking for him. It was Peter Krause they were looking for.’

Reinhardt ran his bottom lip across his teeth. ‘Who is Peter Krause?’ Something jogged his memory. Why did he know that name?

‘A soldier,’ replied Anna, simply. ‘One of Stefan’s friends.’

‘And the Feldgendarmerie were looking for him?’ Anna nodded. ‘Did they say why?’

‘They said he was a deserter. But I don’t think that’s what it was. They kept asking whether Stefan had ever given him anything, or had he left anything with us. They turned this place upside down,’ she said, motioning around the room.

‘And gave your friend that black eye, correct?’

Anna nodded. Florica, who it was clear spoke at least some German, drew herself up, which had the unfortunate side effect of pulling her dress even tighter across her bosom, and glared at them. Her eyes were liable to strike sparks and it was lucky for her, thought Reinhardt, the Feldgendarmerie had left her just with a bruise.

‘What did they think Krause had?’

‘They didn’t say. They just kept asking, and I kept saying I didn’t know. But I think it was some pictures. I heard them talking. Especially the one in charge, the second time they came.’

‘They came twice?’

‘The first time was on Sunday, in the evening. The last time was this morning. They were in a big hurry to find whatever they were after. The one in charge was very angry. He hit us.’

‘A tall man, blond? Big chest?’ Reinhardt asked, pushing up his shoulders.

‘No,’ replied Anna. ‘Thin, and quite short. And he had thin hair. Dark, like red,’ she said, tilting her head down, and checking for shy;Reinhardt’s reaction through her eyelashes. She tilted her head as Florica whispered something at her. ‘And glasses. Little metal ones.’

She had described Becker quite accurately, despite Reinhardt’s attempt to throw her off. Why had he stymied Reinhardt? ‘What did they want?’ he asked, again.

Anna sighed. ‘Do you maybe have a cigarette?’

Reinhardt shook a couple of Atikahs from his pack and offered them to her and Florica, who refused with an imperious shake of the head. Reinhardt lit a match and Anna leaned forward. She cupped her hand lightly around his as she lit the cigarette, closing her eyes as she exhaled a long cloud of smoke.

‘They wanted what, you said?’ Her hand was warm and soft where it lay around his.

She shook her head and opened her eyes. ‘I didn’t say,’ she said. She let go of his hand, slowly. ‘I don’t know. I said I think it was pictures. They kept asking if Peter had a camera, and where it was. Or if Stefan was a photographer.’

‘Were either of them?’

‘I never saw either of them with a camera.’

‘Krause,’ said Reinhardt, after a moment. ‘Can you describe him?’

Anna and Florica exchanged glances, the Gypsy shrugging expressively. ‘Sort of, nothing special, really,’ said Anna. ‘Brown hair. A little bit fat.’

‘His rank?’ Anna shook her head, pursing her lips slightly, and drew deeply on her cigarette again. Reinhardt turned, taking in the room, the jumble of possessions. The Feldgendarmerie were looking for something, more than someone, but the someone was unknown to Reinhardt. Someone completely new to the investigation. ‘Were they often together, Hendel and Krause?’

Anna nodded, thoughtfully. ‘I think so. They were often at the club together. And here, sometimes.’

‘How did Hendel seem to you? The last time you saw him.’

Anna exchanged a glance with Florica. The Gypsy stared back at her. ‘He seemed excited,’ said Anna, finally, still looking at the other woman. ‘Something at work, he said,’ turning to look at Reinhardt. ‘I know it had something to do with Marija Vukic, but he did not say what.’

‘Do you know what kind of relationship the two of them had?’

Again, that exchange of glances between the women. Florica snorted and turned away, exasperated. Anna hissed something after her, her eyes darting back to Reinhardt, then back to the other woman. ‘I know the kind of relationship he wanted to have,’ she said, finally. ‘But she was not interested.’

Florica spun back towards Anna, hissing something at the blond girl. Anna snapped back, the two of them whispering urgently, their voices dragging at the back of their throats. Reinhardt turned to Hueber. The young corporal was fascinated by the two of them, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. ‘What are they saying?’ asked Reinhardt.