Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Well, that would be neither here nor there, sir. And in both cases, unless this were official, which I feel it is not, it is none of your business.’

‘What are you afraid of?’ asked Reinhardt, leaning both elbows on the desk and swivelling to face the man directly. He leaned back slightly, as if to keep Reinhardt at arm’s length.

‘Afraid?’

‘Yes. Afraid. Something to hide, perhaps?’ The receptionist frowned, drawing himself up, and Reinhardt wondered if he had gone too far too quickly. ‘Very well,’ he said, quickly. He nodded at a door to one side, marked Private – Manager. ‘Let me speak with him. Now.’

‘What, may I ask, is so urgent?’

‘Well, I said you could ask,’ said Reinhardt, glancing around the lobby. Apart from the waiters in the dining room, there was no one.

‘In that case, I’m afraid I am not able to help you, sir. Good day to you.’ The man sniffed, then picked up a pen and began to write in a small book. He looked up after a moment, seemingly surprised to find Reinhardt still there. ‘Was there something else, sir?’

‘Your manager. Go and get him.’

The receptionist’s face flushed, the wrinkles around his eyes whitening. ‘I told you -’ He broke off as Reinhardt slapped Thallberg’s letter naming him a GFP auxiliary down on the desk. He looked at Reinhardt before polishing his glasses on the edge of his waistcoat. He pulled his nose tight as he put them on, then picked up the paper. With a last look at Reinhardt over the top of his glasses, he sighed, as if giving him a last chance to leave, and then began to read. Within moments the man’s eyes flicked up at Reinhardt, then back to the letter. He finished it and put it down on the counter. He took off his glasses, his fingers nervous on the frames, and looked up.

Reinhardt grinned, the most insolent grin he could come up with. ‘Changes things?’ The receptionist cleared his throat. Reinhardt made the grin go away, looking hard at the man. He did not like acting like this, and the man was polite and just doing his job. It felt wrong, but it was part of the role he had to play.

‘I am not sure it does, sir,’ said the man, but he sounded noticeably less sure of himself.

‘Oh, I assure you it does. You either help me now, or I come back with a squad of Feldgendarmerie and turn this place upside down. Now. For the last time. Your manager.’

The receptionist knew when he had lost. ‘Yes, sir. Whom shall I say is calling?’

‘Captain Reinhardt. Abwehr.’ He flicked a dismissive hand at the paper. ‘Just as it says on the letter. Show it to him.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the man. He straightened his suit jacket with two hands, and stalked off with his head high over to the manager’s office. He knocked once, cleared his throat, then opened the door and stepped inside.

The moment he did, Reinhardt reached over the counter and hauled up a big ledger, bound in black leather, the pages thick and white. He looked quickly at the date, flicked back a page, finding the weekend. He ran his fingers down the list of names, his eyes leaping over the looping signatures of generals, colonels, majors… Some of the names he recognised. Most of the names of the officers from the bar were there. Faber. Forster. Lehmann was there. Verhein! There he was. Colonel Ascher’s name was next. His chief of staff, Reinhardt remembered. He had been at the bar as well. Two other colonels from the 121st were there: Gartner and Oelker. He made to put the ledger back, then paused. Why bother? He had been thinking furtively, like someone doing something wrong. He was doing something wrong, but the person he was supposed to be would not think that way. He swallowed, hot and embarrassed, feeling how close he was to skirting that line he had always tried to stay away from. He feigned a nonchalance he did not feel, forced himself to lean on his elbow on the counter as he lifted another page.

The receptionist came back out, Reinhardt’s letter in his hand. Seeing him with the ledger, he stopped dead for a moment. ‘What do you think you are doing ?’

‘Where’s the manager?’

‘Absent.’

‘Very well. You’ll do just as well. By the way, your name is?’

‘Ewald. Alfred Ewald.’

‘Well, Mr Ewald, may I have my letter back?’

He put his hand on the ledger as Ewald reached for it. ‘I declare, of all the insolent… ’

‘Mr Ewald, I am on official business. Official business,’ he repeated. ‘You can either help me or hinder me. In both cases, I get what I want. In one case, you come out worse. Decide which it will be.’

‘The manager will complain about your behaviour. Believe me he will. To the highest levels.’ Reinhardt stared back at him, expression even and blank. Ewald clenched his jaw and then seemed to calm. ‘Very well. What do you want?’

‘For now, just to look at this. If you will permit me… ?’ Reinhardt looked at the date entries for Verhein. Checked in on Thursday. Checked out on Sunday. As did all of his officers. But Reinhardt had seen Ascher just on Tuesday, in the officers’ mess when he had made such a fool of himself. He jotted the dates down in his notebook.

‘Are you aware of the murder of Miss Marija Vukic? On Saturday?’ Ewald nodded. ‘Well, I have reason to believe the killer may have been one of your guests.’

‘One of our…’ he said. Reinhardt watched him as the light in his eyes seemed to fold back and away, and he stood straighter, as if braced.

‘Yes. One of your guests. Now, think back to Saturday night. Did anything happen you thought then was strange? Or think now was strange? Anything at all. Take your time.’

‘Nothing, sir,’ said Ewald. ‘Nothing comes to mind.’

‘Nothing?’ Reinhardt pursed his lips. ‘A woman was murdered not five minutes’ walk from here, by someone who had almost certainly stayed in this hotel, and you can tell me nothing.’ He sighed. He felt deflated suddenly, but he saw that his sigh had a different effect on Ewald. He saw an officer, a security officer, an apparently frustrated security officer. ‘Who was on the front desk that day?’

‘That was me, sir.’

‘Hmmm. There was a conference here that weekend, no?’ He motioned at the ledger. ‘All those officers. There was a dinner? A shy;reception?’

‘On Saturday night, yes,’ said Ewald. ‘But dinner was quiet. There was quite a bit of drinking afterwards, though. Not too much. I mean, I’ve seen much worse,’ he finished, a sickly sort of smile creasing across his face. It looked wrong on him.

‘Were there any guests? People invited to the dinner?’

‘Oh. Yes. Only a few. All officials of the state.’

‘No women?’

Ewald looked scandalised. ‘This is a respectable establishment.’

Reinhardt shook his head in exasperation. ‘Not those sort of women. Guests. Of the officers.’

‘Ah. No.’

‘When did the dinner finish?’

‘Around nine o’clock, sir,’ said Ewald.

‘And then?’

‘Then? Well, I believe most of the guests went to their rooms. Some went to the bar. Not many. Perhaps a few may have gone out, probably into town, or perhaps across to the Hungary.’

‘Did you find any of that normal?’ Ewald raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. ‘Officers unwinding after an event like that usually make more of an occasion of it, no?’

‘I have seen things get a little out of hand in similar circumstances, sir, yes.’

‘But not this time?’ Reinhardt nodded, looking at Ewald. ‘I would like to have a look around the hotel.’

The receptionist gave a grudging nod. ‘I remind you, Captain, I will be complaining about your behaviour,’ he said. Then he paused, turned back, and picked up a set of keys.