Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Putkovic looked at the young man with an expressionless face. ‘He knows something about a film,’ he growled, his fist tightening in Jelic’s clothes. Jelic made to say something, but Putkovic shook him, like a man might shake a kitten. ‘ Sutjeti ,’ he hissed.

‘I already told Padelin, Jelic doesn’t know anything.’

‘Yes, is what you said. But you didn’t give proof.’

‘ Proof?! ’ scoffed Reinhardt. ‘You haven’t been overly concerned with that until now. Why break such a good habit over someone like him?’

‘Break is good word, Captain Reinhardt. But not word you know well, I think.’

‘What?’

‘I will break this Jelic,’ said Putkovic, ignoring him. ‘Maybe you will tell me what I want to know. Maybe he will tell me what I want to know. I win both times. And, I have some fun with this Jelic,’ he smiled. In a form of repulsive symbiosis, Reinhardt felt Bunda’s grip on his arms tighten in what must have been anticipation.

‘Putkovic, there is no need for any of that.’

‘What is he for you, anyway?’ grunted Putkovic. ‘You fucking him or something?’ A dull glint sparked in his eyes, and he snorted something in Serbo-Croat at the other two policemen. Bunda laughed, Reinhardt feeling the huge man shake through the grip he maintained on his arms. Padelin just kept that basilisk stare, his eyes not leaving Reinhardt. ‘Hey, bum-boy,’ Putkovic laughed at Jelic. ‘This man bothering you? You have something you want to report?’ He carried on, guffawing over his own mirth with Bunda egging him on. From the way Jelic’s face coloured, Reinhardt knew that some of the barbs were striking home.

Putkovic gave a final laugh that trailed into a chuckle, and then he was silent, any trace of humour gone. He looked between Reinhardt and Jelic. ‘What you doing here, Captain?’ he said, again.

‘I came to see if he was in trouble. With you, over what you thought he might know.’

‘And what you think he might know?’

‘Like I told Padelin earlier today, he doesn’t know anything.’

Putkovic let go of Jelic, the young man staggering back and slumping against the big table. The policeman walked up close to Reinhardt and stared at him with his piggish little eyes. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘Why should German officer stick out neck for someone like him?’

Other than the fact that this was wrong, Putkovic was right. There was no reason why Reinhardt was doing this, and every reason to stay away. Every reason in the upside-down world this life had become. ‘I got the film from Tomic. He was Vukic’s cameraman. All right? He was supposed to be in Zagreb, but he was here all the time.’ He dared not say more unless he revealed too much about Begovic and the safe house. Who knew how things might end then.

‘Where is Tomic now?’

‘I don’t know.’

Putkovic narrowed his eyes, staring intently at Reinhardt. ‘You don’t know? Or you won’t tell us? There is more. I know it.’ He stepped back. ‘We hear about you. You soft with Partisans.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘In interrogations. You soft. Go easy with the Reds. You like Reds? You don’t break them. Just talk to them. Talk, talk, talk.’

Reinhardt felt a chill, a curious sense of dislocation, thinking of how Begovic had spoken to him of this very same thing. It was like seeing himself suddenly from a different angle, as someone else would. A German officer soft on Partisans? Putkovic clenched his jaw and said something to Padelin, nodding his head to the door that led farther into the apartment. It looked like Padelin would protest, but then he just took Reinhardt’s pistol from his holster. Bunda let go of him, and Padelin took Reinhardt’s arm in his own not-inconsiderable grip and pulled him with him out of the room and down a short corridor. ‘In there,’ he said. Reinhardt opened a door into a bedroom. A rumpled half-made bed, a lit lamp on a bedside table. Padelin pushed him in with a heavy hand in his back. ‘Sit on the bed.’ Padelin shut the door, put Reinhardt’s pistol in his pocket, and took a chair opposite the bed, sitting back with a creak of wood and staring blankly at the wall behind Reinhardt.

It was hard to hear anything in the room through the walls and doors, and over the thudding of his heart and the pounding of the blood in his ears. What he could not hear, though, his imagination made up for. Jelic did not stand a chance against Putkovic and Bunda, and they would not waste too much time questioning him. And then what? The Germans and Croats were allies, but it would not take much for these three to get it in their heads that he knew more and then dispose of him somewhere. They could always blame it on the Partisans. Thinking of them had him thinking of this apparent reputation he had. Reinhardt, the interrogator soft on the Reds…

He put his forehead on his fingertips and sighed out slowly through puffed cheeks, looking up at Padelin through the bars of his fingers. ‘You don’t look very happy, Padelin,’ he said, lifting his head and dropping his hands.

The inspector blinked, his eyes fixing on Reinhardt. His mouth firmed, as if to hold something back. ‘No’ was the short response. ‘This is your fault, Reinhardt. You should have told me about Tomic.’

There was something to what he said, and Jelic was now paying for that decision. Reinhardt could not find it in himself to regret it, though. His arms throbbed where Bunda had held him. He put his hands on his knees, ran them up his thighs. He felt something in his pocket. Shifting his weight, keeping an eye on Padelin, he put his hand in his pocket, finding, remembering, the little package that Meissner had given him. He unwrapped it and caught his breath for a moment. It was his Williamson. The big pocket watch that he had left for safekeeping with Meissner. Who had returned it to him…

‘What do you know of friendship, Padelin?’

‘What?’

‘Friendship. Friends. What do you know of that?’

Padelin sighed. ‘Just be quiet, Reinhardt, and it will soon be over.’

‘I was a fortunate man, by most standards. I had good friends. The best. The sort that would lay down their lives for you. Ever had a friend like that, Padelin? No?’ The detective stared at him with his flat eyes. Reinhardt looked back down at the watch. ‘Do you think Vukic had friends?’

‘Be quiet, Reinhardt.’

Reinhardt fingered the watch, running his thumb over the inscription on the watch’s case, at the name engraved there. He had done that so often that the metal was worn smooth, polished to a bright edge. He checked his Phenix and adjusted the time on the Williamson before wrapping it back in its soft leather bag. He thought back to Meissner’s words and saw the sense behind them now. Meissner did not know how much time he had left, he realised, and did not want the watch to end up with anybody else. He was tying up loose ends.

He gave a shallow sigh, looking down at the floor. There was a coil of wire by his foot, leading from a plug to the lamp on the bedside table next to him. He shifted on the bed, putting the watch back in his pocket. As he did so, he slid his foot onto the wire, the heel of his boot resting on top of it.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ He took his cigarettes and matches from his other pocket, letting the baton slip up and out. He straightened his jacket as he did, making it all but invisible where it lay snugly down his leg. There was a sound from the main room. A thud. Someone cried out in pain. Reinhardt stared at the wall, then at Padelin. The big detective blinked, returning his stare with a monk’s impassivity. ‘I don’t think she had friends,’ said Reinhardt, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. He put his elbows on his knees, folded one hand within the other. ‘I think she had people that used her. For sex, mostly,’ he said, blowing smoke across the room.