Pierre Frei - Berlin - A Novel

'I admire your perspicacity. So can you also tell us where to look for the motorbike?'

'In Frau Kalkfurth's garage,' said a voice from the corner.

Klaus Dietrich was startled. 'What did you say?'

Ralf flicked an orange pip into the waste bin with precision. 'Her cat was sitting on an old eiderdown. It was covering up a motorbike.'

'When was this?'

'Couple of days ago.'

Franke was sceptical. 'So the bike was just standing in the garage where anyone could see it?'

'You have to get past a whole lot of old junk first, and it's pretty dark in there,' Ralf told him.

'Is there any other way into the garage?' his father asked.

'Yes, a door out the back.'

'Come here.' Klaus Dietrich put his hands on his son's shoulders. 'Why didn't you tell me this before?'

'Didn't know you were looking for it. Did someone nick it?'

'Listen, son. What we've been discussing here is strictly secret. Police business. You're not to say a word about it to anyone else. Even Mama or Ben.'

Ralf's chest swelled with pride as he walked home. He was in on strictly secret police business!

Franke was convinced. 'So the Kalkfurth son wasn't killed in Poland at all. He survived the war and now he's killing again. His mother's hiding him and the motorbike. Why don't we put the lady through the wringer? A few hours in the cells will soften her up. We can find some excuse.'

'Take it easy, sergeant. If there's anything in what you say we'd be giving him advance warning. And we have no evidence.'

'He's alive and he's killing, I feel it in my guts,' Franke insisted. 'What do you suggest, sir?'

'We keep a watch on the garage. If our suspicions are right, he'll come out some time or other with the motorbike and go hunting again.'

Franke was sceptical. And we chug along behind in our wood-gas racing car?'

The inspector picked up the phone. 'Hello, Captain Ashburner. Dietrich here. I think we're on the trail.' He passed on Ralf's information, concluding, 'We're going to watch the garage. The problem is, if something happens how do we follow the motorbike? Our mobile stove does fifty kilometres an hour at the most. Of course, if we had a jeep…'

'You can dismiss that idea from your mind, inspector. The Military Police isn't a car-hire firm. And since by now it's clear you're after a German killer, and he's been thoughtful enough not to murder any American girls, I have strict instructions to confine myself to an advisory function.' Ashburner looked at the silver-framed photograph on his desk. All the same, it's possible I might be able to help you. I'll call you back tomorrow. Goodbye.'

The captain straightened the photograph: the cleaning lady had knocked it out of place while she was dusting. The picture showed him and Jutta, arm in arm outside the door of the Wilskistrasse building. They had taken it with the delayed action shutter release, much to Jutta's amusement, because he looked so funny racing back from the camera on his long legs to stand there beside her. To him, it was more than just a snapshot. It was a public statement of his love. Even Sergeant Donovan, not noted for sensitivity, refrained from making a comment.

Colonel Tucker was less tactful. The city commandant's adjutant clicked his tongue. 'Pretty blonde Fraulein. Nice little morsel for the Uncle Tom killer, don't you think?'

'Keep your tasteless comments to yourself, Tucker.'

'Only a joke. You know what I hold against that damn murderer most, captain? Killing our Helga. Myra's back on the gin bottle now.'

'The German police have picked up a fresh trail.'

'General Abbot will be glad to hear it. But that's not the reason for my visit. You must help me, John. It's about Senator William Bullock from Washington. He's seen the Brandenburg Gate, he's bought a black-market Leica, and he's assured the local press that the eyes of the free world are on Berlin. The Senator's own eyes are more on the young women of Berlin, particularly a voluptuous redhead called Waltraud. Bullock's flying to Frankfurt today, to meet the military governor there for dinner. After that exhausting programme he'd like to relax for a few days in the Taunus, at our guesthouse there, once a German luxury hotel, in the company of the aforesaid lady. General Abbot wants nothing to do with the business and has offloaded it on me.'

A delicate diplomatic mission, sir,' said the captain with heavy irony. 'How can I help you?'

'I need someone to pick the lady up in Steglitz and take her to the airplane. A captain in the Military Police would be above all suspicion.'

'In fact that fits in rather well, sir. I have to go to Tempelhof anyway. My wife is arriving today, in the plane that will be going on to Frankfurt with the senator.'

All we need is a plausible explanation as to why this German girl has permission to fly AOA.'

'No problem, sir. We'll say she's a witness in the US case against some Nazi armaments company, and they want to question her in Frankfurt. Last week we had to fly a former state secretary to Frankfurt to give evidence, so it's not the first time. No one's going to check up.'

'Perfect idea, John. I'll have the necessary papers made out at once. Thanks a lot. I owe you one.'

The voluptuous redhead was called Waltraud Sommer and lived in Albrechtstrasse. She obviously enjoyed having a genuine US captain to carry her case and help her into the jeep. 'Does the plane shake about a lot?' she asked, more in anticipation then anxiety.

Not in fine weather,' he told her.

The Arrivals and Departures of American Overseas Airlines were temporarily accommodated in a side area of Tempelhof airfield, which had been two-thirds destroyed. The rest of the space belonged to the US Air Force. Civilian air traffic had resumed two weeks earlier. There were few flights, and they were taken only by relations of the soldiers stationed in Berlin and a few official visitors.

Senator William Bullock was a massive man in a white Stetson. He stood surrounded by reporters, uttering a few platitudes. 'There he is! Hi, Bullie darling!' Waltraud sailed towards the senator with arms outstretched. With great presence of mind, Ashburner turned her round and gently but firmly pressed her down on a seat. 'You don't know the senator,' he quietly informed her. 'He'll come over to you.'

'OK. I get it. So no one notices and tells his old lady.'

They were sitting back to back with two passengers waiting to fly out. 'Hitler's right-hand man a Berlin allotment gardener!' Ashburner heard one of them say behind him. 'They were taking you for a ride, Clarence Preston Brubaker, and a good long ride at that.'

A mistake, Dad. I admit it.'

'If I hadn't flown straight over and told Dick Draycott of UP to check the story out, right now the Hackensack Herald would be the laughing stock of the press. Cost me a pretty packet of dollars getting Draycott to keep his mouth shut, I can tell you.'

'I'm sorry, Dad.'

'You'll be even sorrier when I tell you there'll be no more foreign assignments for you. In future you can stay home and run the Puzzle Corner of the paper.'

'Yes, Dad. Here comes our plane.'

John Ashburner watched with mixed feelings as the silver bird flew in between the ruined buildings at the Neukolln end of the makeshift runway. Ethel had announced that she was coming in a few brief lines. Her letter said not a word about divorce, and without her consent he stood no chance. The laws of Illinois were on Ethel's side. He had not told Jutta that his wife was coming, and he felt very bad about that.

'Don't move until your flight is called,' he told the girl beside him. And stay away from the senator. Have a good journey.' He rose.

All clear. And thank you very much.' Ashburner made off before Waltraud could clasp him gratefully to her opulent bosom.