The Good German (33 page)

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LIZ’S BODY WAS shipped home by military transport and Shaeffer’s lay in a hospital bed, mending, without visitors. MG filed an official complaint with the Russians, who promptly sent one back, and the incident floated between In trays, waiting for the Kommandatura to meet and quarrel. Jake retreated to the flat and tried to write a piece about Liz, then gave it up. In
Stars and Stripes
she had already become a kind of soldier on the front lines; why say anything else? It was the newsreel all over again, more real than real. If you watched it on the screen, what would you actually see? An accident in crossfire, not a girl stepping into someone else’s bullet. Only Jake had looked over her shoulder at the pointing gun.

When he went to Gelferstrasse, he was unnerved to hear footsteps next door, but it was only Ron, folding her clothes onto a pile near an open satchel.

“Give me a hand, will you?” he said, holding up some underwear. “It feels funny, going through this stuff.”

“Never seen panties before?”

“It feels funny, that’s all,” Ron said, strangely subdued, and Jake knew what he meant. As each piece of silk dropped into the satchel, he felt finally that Liz was really gone, now just a bundle of neatly folded effects.

“Why don’t you get the woman downstairs to do it?”

“A German? There wouldn’t be much left. You know what they’re like.”

Jake held up a pair of shoes, the ones Lena had danced in, and stood for a second looking at them.

“Take them if you want,” Ron said. Why not? A whole suitcase of things Lena could use, impossible to buy. He’d become a Berliner, scavenging the dead. He dropped the shoes in the satchel.

“They might mean something to somebody. Is there family?”

Ron shrugged. “What about these?” he said, pointing to a small collection of cosmetics. “Christ, women.”

A half tube of lipstick, some powder, a jar of cream—all ordinary, not worth sending back.

“Let downstairs have them.”

“The old lady?”

“She can trade them.”

“I’ll bet she’s got her eye on the cameras. They’re already making noises about the storage room in the basement—you know, where she set up a darkroom. They say they need the space.”

“I’ll clear it out,” Jake said, picking up a camera from the bed. The one she’d used in Potsdam, still flecked with blood. He twisted the knob to the end, then popped out the last roll. “You’d better clean this before you pack it,” he said, holding the camera out to Ron, who looked at it squeamishly. “Where’s it all going, anyway?”

“Home.”

“Not CID?”

“Why CID?” Ron said, surprised.

“Well, she was killed, wasn’t she?”

“She might have been hit by a bus, too. We don’t send them the bus. What are you talking about?”

Well, what? Jake looked at the lipstick, a folded blouse, none of it evidence, only what had flashed in his eyes, as unreliable as a newsreel. He walked over to the desk, stacked with photographs.

“Hell of a way to go, though,” Ron was saying, finishing the packing. “All through the war without a scratch, and then
bam
.”

Jake started flipping through the pictures. Churchill at the Chancellery. Ron at the airport in a blur of uniforms. Another of Joe.

“What about Shaeffer?”

“He lost some blood, but they stitched him up all right.”

“They said no visitors.”

“It was a lot of blood,” Ron said, looking at him. “Since when were you two so friendly? ”

“Just asking. What happens to these?” Jake said, holding up the pictures.

“Damned if I know. The news service, I guess, technically. Think there’s anything the family would want?”

“I doubt it. She’s not in any of them.” The other side of the camera, so that you left without a trace.

“Well, have a look. Just get them out of here—we’re going to need the room.” He snapped the satchel shut. “That’s that. Not a lot, is it?”

“She liked to travel light.”

“Yeah, except for her goddamn equipment,” he said, nodding at the packed case by the door. “Some girl, though.”

“Yes.”

Ron looked over at him. “You two ever—”

“Ever what?”

“You know. I always thought she had a soft spot for you.”

“No.” It might have been nice.

“Just old Shaeffer, huh? You saved the wrong one, if you ask me.”

“She was already dead.”

Ron shook his head. “Fucking Dodge City. Nobody’s safe out there.”

Jake thought of Gunther, reading westerns, going through his points. “So we fire the police,” he said.

“We’re the police,” Ron said, looking at him curiously. “Anyway, what difference would it make?” He turned to go. “You never know, do you? When your number’s up, that’s it.”

“That wasn’t it. Somebody shot her.”

“Well, sure,” Ron said, then turned back. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying somebody shot her. Not an accident.”

Ron peered at him. “Are you all right? There were only about a hundred witnesses, you know.”

“They’re wrong.”

“Everyone but you. Then who did it?”

“What?”

“Who did it? Somebody shoots, not an accident, it’s the first thing I’d want to know.”

Jake stared. “You’re right. Who was he?”

“Some Russian,” Ron said, at a loss.

“Nobody’s just some Russian.
Who
was he?” he said to himself, then gathered up the photographs to leave. “Thanks.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see a policeman. A real one.”

But it was Bernie who answered the door in Kreuzberg.

“You picked a fine time. Come on, as long as you’re here. We have to get him on his feet.”

Jake looked around the room—the same messy hodgepodge as before, everything smelling of fresh coffee. Gunther was bent over a mug, breathing in the steam, head nodding, the map of Berlin behind him.

“What’s up?”

“The trial. He’s in the witness box in an hour, so what does he do? Goes on a bender. I get here, he’s on the fucking
floor
.”

“What trial?”

“Your pal Renate. The
greifer
. Today’s the day. Here, help me get him up.”

“Herr Geismar,” Gunther said, looking up from the mug, eyes bleary.

“Drink the coffee,” Bernie snapped. “All these weeks and now he pulls this.” Gunther was rising unsteadily. “Think you can manage a shave, or should we do it for you?”

“I can shave myself,” Gunther said stiffly.

“What about clothes?” Bernie said. “You can’t go looking like that.” A dirty undershirt marked with stains.

Gunther nodded toward the closet, then turned to Jake. “So how goes your case? I thought you had given up.”

“No. I’ve got lots to tell you.”

“Good,” Bernie said. “Talk to him. Maybe that’ll wake him up.” He opened the closet and pulled out a dark suit. “This fit?”

“Of course.”

“It better. You’re going to make a good impression if I have to hold you up.”

“It’s so important to you?” Gunther said, his voice distant.

“She sent your wife to the ovens. Isn’t it important to you?”

Gunther looked down and took another sip of coffee. “So what is it you want, Herr Geismar?”

“I need you to talk to your Russian friends. Find out about somebody. There was a shooting in Potsdam.”

“Always Potsdam,” Gunther said, a grunt.

“A Russian shot a friend of mine. I want to know who he is. Was.” Gunther raised his eyes. “Somebody shot back.”

“His name isn’t on the report?” Gunther said, a cop’s question.

“Not just his name. Who he was.”

“Ah, the who,” Gunther said, drinking more coffee. “So, another case.”

The same case.

“The same?” Bernie said, following the conversation from the closet. “They said it was an accident. A robbery. It was in the papers.”

“It wasn’t a robbery,” Jake said. “I was there. It was a setup.” He looked at Gunther. “The shooting was the point. They just happened to get the wrong person.”

“That was your friend.”

Jake nodded. “The man they wanted took one in the shoulder.”

“Not a sharpshooter, then,” Gunther said, using the western term.

“It’s easy to miss in a crowd. You know what the market’s like. All hell broke loose. Shooting all over the place. Ask your friend Sikorsky.”

Gunther looked up from his coffee. “He was in the market? In Potsdam?”

Jake smiled. “Peddling cigarettes. Maybe
he
was buying a rug, I don’t know. He got out fast enough when the shooting started, just like everybody else.”

“Then he didn’t see the first shots.”

“I saw them.”

“Go on,” Gunther said.

“Talk while you shave,” Bernie said, nudging him toward the bathroom. “I’ll get more coffee.”

Gunther shuffled to the sink, obedient, and stood for a minute in front of the mirror looking at himself, then started to lather his face with a brush. Jake sat on the edge of the tub.

“Don’t be long,” Bernie said from the other room. “We have to go over your testimony one last time.”

“We’ve been over my testimony,” Gunther said to the mirror grimly, his grizzled face slowly disappearing under a film of soap.

“You don’t want to forget anything.”

“Don’t worry,” Gunther said, to himself now, leaning on the sink. “I won’t forget.”

He picked up a straight-edge razor, his hand shaking.

“Are you going to be all right?” Jake said quietly. “Do you want me to do that?”

“You think I might hurt myself? No.” He held up the razor, looking at it. “Do you know how many times I’ve thought how easy it would be? One cut, that’s all, and it’s over.” He shook his head. “I could never do it. I don’t know why. I tried. I put the razor here,” he said, touching his throat, “but I couldn’t cut. You think it would cut me now? An accident?” He turned sideways to look at Jake. “I don’t believe in accidents.” He faced the mirror again. “So tell me about our case.”

Jake shifted on the tub rim, disconcerted. Not the drink talking, the voice behind the drink, suddenly naked, not even aware of being exposed, like someone in a window taking off his clothes. What goes through your head when you feel a razor on your throat? But now it was there again, taking a calm, neat stroke upward through the soap, guided by a survivor’s steady hand.

Jake started to talk, his words following the rhythmic scraping, trying to match the logical path of the shave, down one cheek, curving around the corners of the mouth, but soon the story went off on its own, darting from one place to another, the way it had actually happened. There was a lot Gunther didn’t know. The serial-number dash. Kransberg. Frau Dzuris. Even young Willi, loitering in Professor Brandt’s street. At times Jake thought Gunther had stopped listening, stretching his skin to draw the razor closer without nicking, but then he would grunt and Jake knew he was registering the points, his mind clearing with each swipe of his soapy face.

Bernie came in with more coffee and stayed, leaning against the door and watching Gunther’s expression in the mirror, for once not interrupting. A Russian kneeling in front of a Horch, gun out. Meister Toll. Gunther rinsed the blade and splashed his face clean.

“Is this presentable enough for you?” he said to Bernie.

“Just like new. Here’s a shirt,” he said, handing it over.

“So what do you think?” Jake said.

“Everything’s mixed up,” Gunther said absently, wiping his face.

“I’ve confused you.”

“It’s more, I think, that you have confused yourself.”

Jake looked at him.

“Herr Geismar, you cannot do police work by intuition. Follow the points, like a bookkeeper. You have two problems, so you make two columns. Keep them separate, don’t leap from column to column.”

“But they connect.”

“Only at Kransberg. Who knows? Maybe the one coincidence. The obvious point, you know, is that Tully
wasn’t
looking for Herr Brandt. The others, yes. Not him.” He shook his head, slipping into the shirt. “No, put your numbers down in order, each in its own column. It is only when the same number comes up that you have a match, the connection.”

“Maybe they connect at Potsdam. That keeps coming up.”

“Yes, and why?” Gunther said, buttoning the shirt. “I’ve never understood about Potsdam. What was he doing there? And that day, a closed city.”

“You asked me to check on that,” Bernie said. “Passes into the American compound. Zero. No Tully.”

“But he was found there,” Jake said. “Russian sector, Russian money.”

“Yes, the money. It’s a useful point.” Gunther picked up the coffee cup again, drinking. “If he got Russian money, it must have been here. But not from an Ivan buying watches, I think. Who has so much? Have you heard anything from Alford?” No.

“Try again. The tie also?” he said to Bernie.

“You want to look your best for the judge,” Bernie said.

Jake sighed, stymied. “Danny won’t get us anywhere. We have to

find Emil.“

Gunther turned to the mirror, slipping the tie underneath his collar. “Keep your columns separate. There isn’t yet the connection.”

“And I suppose the shooting in Potsdam wasn’t connected either.”

“No. There a number matches.”

“Shaeffer, you mean.”

“Herr Geismar, you have a gift for ignoring the obvious. A gift.” He leaned toward the mirror, knotting his tie. “There are three people standing in the market. Close. When you describe it, you see a gun pointing at the photographer. But I see her bending down. I see it pointing at you.”

For a second Jake just stared at Gunther, the sharp eyes no longer cloudy, now cleared by caffeine. “Me?” he said, little more than a surprised intake of air.

“A man who finds a body, who investigates a murder. Do you mean this hasn’t occurred to you? Who else? A soldier, for raiding the Zeiss works? Perhaps. The lady? And it might be, you know—you’re quick to look away from her. The person shot is usually the one intended. But let’s say this time you’re right, a piece of luck. Luck for you.”

Stepping into his bullet, dead because he was lucky.