Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

'We don't as a rule give information to Germans. But Captain Ashburner has asked me to help you, so I'll make an exception.'

'How good of you.'

Curtis S. Chalford stroked back his thin fair hair, looking a little uncertain. Was this German making fun of him? 'What would you like to know, inspector?' he asked.

'Who was she?'

Chalford picked an entry out of a card index. 'Marlene Kaschke, aged thirty-three. No sexual diseases. I gave her a job as an usherette in the Uncle Tom cinema three weeks ago. She lived at 198 Argentinische Allee.'

'The house where she was murdered,' the inspector told him. 'Is anything known about her past?'

'She said she'd been working as a farmhand.'

'Can you give us any more detailed information?'

'That's all I know. Are you on anyone's trail yet?'

'The murderer is presumably a German employee of the US Army and knows his way around Onkel Toms Hiitte. You probably gave him a job yourself.'

'The Uncle Tom Killer,' said Chalford in his broad American accent. 'Why the hell does he kill in Uncle Tom?'

'We're assuming that he has a hideout somewhere there.' Dietrich came out with his request. 'Captain Ashburner says you have a card index containing photographs of employees. We have a witness who claims to have seen the murderer. I'd be very grateful if you would let him take a look at the pictures of all the Germans employed by the army.' Chalford's face twisted. He obviously didn't like this at all. Perhaps it upset his routine. 'It really would be a great help to us, sir,' the inspector said with great courtesy. Chalford was playing impatiently with a pencil. 'We'll fit in with your engagements, of course.'

Chalford put the pencil down. All right, inspector. Come tomorrow, and Gertrud will show you the card index. Time to go home, Gertrud!'

'Yes, Mr Chalford,' said the secretary from the next room.

Franke was waiting downstairs in the Opel. 'How did it go, sir?'

'Chalford is a pompous ass. Probably a low-grade office worker at home, but he puts on airs here. It doesn't matter to us, just so long as we can see his card index. Let Miihlberger know.'

Curtis S. Chalford took the army bus from his office in Lichterfelde to the OMGUS headquarters in Clayallee, as he did every evening. From there he had only a couple of minutes to walk home. He was living in a requisitioned villa in Gelfertstrasse, assigned to him because of his position.

He was looking forward to his evening. The reason was a plump woman with dark curly hair, a pretty, full face, and the beginnings of a double chin. Renate Schlegel was twenty-eight, and the maternal type.

She had come to the German-American Employment Office to look for work. She spoke passable English. Chalford invited her to lunch. Over chicken and rice he made her an offer: she could live with him as his housekeeper and look after him. He offered her three cartons of cigarettes over and above her official wages, and of course good food, as well as those little items from the PX that a woman likes to have.

Renate Schlegel was on her own. Her husband had fallen at Narvik, at the very beginning of the war. After that she had two affairs, one with a bank manager who was too old to fight in the war and died of a heart attack in the shelter during an air raid, the other with a Swiss businessman who hurried home before the Russians arrived. The American seemed to be a quiet, undemanding man. Renate agreed.

Chalford rang the bell. He had keys, but he liked it her to open the door to him, neat in a flowered overall, a wooden spoon in her hand, the mixing bowl close to her big, soft bosom. 'There are pancakes for dessert,' she told him, beaming, and went back to the kitchen.

The dining room, the big sitting room and the master of the house's study were on the ground floor of the villa. Chalford worked in the study for half an hour every evening. He would sit at the desk in front of the cupboard where he kept his papers, bending over exercise books from which he took notes. A correspondence course in bookkeeping,' he told her. 'My job here in Germany is only for the short term. I have to think of the future.' She admired his ambition and industry,

Today, as usual, he spent half an hour in the study before closing the cupboard and going upstairs to the bathroom. Ten minutes later he reappeared in a comfortable casual jacket. 'What's for supper?' he inquired good-naturedly.

'Pork chops in breadcrumbs, with young carrots and roast potatoes.' She brought him a beer.

He looked at her with pleasure, and that was where his interest in her ended. He wanted only her comfortable presence. She wondered if he had a family. A photograph of a young brunette and two little girls suggested that he did, but he never mentioned them. She hoped he would stay a good long time. She liked their arrangement.

'Do they know any more about that new murder?' she asked. 'It's the fourth victim, isn't it?'

He drank from the bottle. 'They're calling him the Uncle Tom killer. I heard that from a German inspector who visited the office today. They don't have any good leads yet.'

'Well, I hope they catch the brute soon.' She went to put the pork chops in the pan. Soon a promising aroma wafted out of the kitchen.

He waited in the shelter of the decorative shrubs outside Club 48 in the morning. He had to see her, had to imagine over and over again how he would possess her as soon as he had the opportunity. He had buttoned the officer's trench coat with the big tear over the left-hand pocket up to his chin, turning his collar up against the rain. From a distance he could just as well have been an American as a German, except that a Yank would have thrown the trench coat away or given it to a German long ago because it was torn.

She was punctual, as she was every morning. She got off her bicycle, pushing up her raincoat and dress in the process so that her knee and part of her thigh were visible. She untied her headscarf and shook out her long blonde hair. He swallowed in excitement.

It stopped raining. The sun broke through, promising a hot day. He hurried off as if hunted, as if he could escape his own thoughts. But they wouldn't let him go. Even work did not distract him.

When it was dark he took the motorcycle out of its hiding place. Restlessly, he rode through the night, going the same way as usual, but she must have stopped work early today. Women were so unreliable. Disappointed, he put the bike back in the garage.

John Ashburner opened the door when Jutta rang. 'You're early; he said, pleased.

'By popular request Sergeant Varady is cooking a genuine Szegedin goulash, so my culinary skills weren't called for and I was allowed to go.'

He was still in his basketball gear. They had formed an army side and an oMGUS side, and turned the gymnasium of a school in Dahlem into a basketball arena. The captain's height made him a very welcome member of his team.

They hugged and kissed, and for a moment it seemed they might go straight to bed. Then he turned away and poured himself a bourbon.

'What's the matter, John?'

'Nothing. Or rather, nothing but trouble. Colonel Tucker was in my office today, expressing the city commandant's displeasure in no uncertain terms. The general wants us to work more closely with the Germans to make sure more women aren't murdered. The public are getting uneasy. On the other hand, he doesn't want the Military Police to intervene directly in German affairs. So I have to confine myself to an advisory role.'

'My poor darling. You're between a rock and a hard place.'

'You could say that.' Ashburner sipped his whiskey. 'Sorry, would you like one?'

'I'll make myself a coffee.' She plugged the electric kettle in.

And by the way, I've written two letters back home to Venice. One to Tony Mancetti, who wants to sell his pasta bar. With my discharge bonus and a loan from the local bank, I could buy it. The red check tablecloths can stay if you like. The other letter was to Ethel. I've told her I want a divorce. She can keep what we've accumulated these last ten years — the house, the life insurance, the Ford and so on. What do you think?'