The Man from Berlin (30 page)

‘Sanctified? Reinhardt, I do not understand you. I don't understand that word.'

‘Sanctified. Means “accepted”.' Padelin looked down at his knees, where his hands rested on them. He spread his fingers, then bunched them back up. ‘What I am saying to you is, you have reached this boundary. You may even have gone over it before. Once. Twice. Many times. It does not mean you must always do so. There has to be something to come back
to.'

Padelin nodded, then got out of the car. He closed the door and looked down at Reinhardt. ‘What I know is we had someone for Marija Vukić's murder, and now that person is dead. We have been made to look like fools.
You
are making us look like fools. I don't like that and the people I work with will like it less.' He stepped back from the door, holding Reinhardt's eyes. ‘You should maybe trust us more. We are your allies, after all. You will, I am sure, be hearing from us soon.' With that, he was gone.

28

R
einhardt pushed open the door to his office to find Thallberg sitting slumped in
one of his chairs. He had his feet up on the edge of the desk and the chair back on two legs. He jumped to his feet as Reinhardt came
in.

‘Where the
bloody
hell have you been?!' he snapped.

Reinhardt put the film case on the desk and raised a placating hand as he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. Thallberg looked hard at him as he inhaled and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘I was called away,' he said, finally.

‘Reinhardt, you're going to have to do a bit better than that.'

Reinhardt held up a hand again. ‘Yes. Yes, just a moment, I need to think some things through.'

‘Think what through? You told me on the telephone you had information for me. You said you'd found “him”. Well? And what's that?' said Thallberg, pointing at the film.

‘That's what I was called away to pick up. It's a film.'

‘I'm guessing it's not the latest offering from the Universum studios.'

Reinhardt pulled his chair out and sat down, drawing smoke deep into his lungs before answering. ‘It turns out Vukić liked to sometimes film herself with her lovers. On the night she was murdered, she arranged to have herself filmed. That's
it.'

‘
Christ
,' breathed Thallberg. Then his eyes narrowed, and he stared accusingly at Reinhardt. ‘How long have you known about this? About her doing this?'

‘Almost from the beginning. She had a sort of studio in her house. It had been ransacked, all the films taken, and then I found a two-way mirror with a camera behind it…' He stopped as Thallberg held up a hand, shaking his head irritably.

‘Wait, later. Later. Go back a bit. Your telephone call. Who do you think you've found?'

‘I've found the man Hendel was tailing. And I know who he was reporting to in Berlin.'

‘And?'

Reinhardt drew deeply on his cigarette, thinking of the bottle in its drawer and how much he needed a drink. ‘I found one of Hendel's files,' he said, shifting in his chair as he pulled the file out from under his tunic. ‘If you can believe it, he'd put it in the sidecar of a motorbike he and Krause took out to Ilidža. The bike was parked in the Feld­gendarmerie station out there. Just sitting in the lot, where the police had dropped it off. You want something to drink?'

Thallberg frowned irritably, staring at the file. ‘Sure.'

Reinhardt filled a cup and handed it to Thallberg, then poured himself a shot and knocked it back. He breathed out slowly, took a drag of his cigarette, and saw Thallberg looking at him with a sardonic glint in his eyes.

‘Well, I wanted one. You certainly
needed
one.' Reinhardt flushed, a hot sweep that came suddenly up his neck. He stared back, and then, feeling defiant and ridiculous at the same time, he poured himself another, then corked the bottle.

‘The file?'

‘Here,' said Reinhardt, tossing it across the desk. Thallberg swept it up and began to read. Reinhardt sipped from his mug, trying to slow the racing of his mind, waiting for the other man to finish. Thallberg looked up, his eyes and face full of a kind of confused blankness, which Reinhardt was sure had been in his own gaze when he had finished the file. Thallberg sighed, then took a long sip of his drink, eyes squinting against the taste.

‘Looks like you needed that,' observed Reinhardt.

Thallberg puffed out a breath and had at least the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Well, I said I was after something big, but this…' He puffed out his breath again. ‘This Varnhorst suspects Verhein of being a Jew? Verhein's a hero, you know. Medals for everything. Everyone's favourite soldier.' He frowned, sipping again from his slivovitz. ‘God, I hate this stuff,' he said, putting the mug back on Reinhardt's desk, barely touched. ‘Give me a beer every time. If I'm not mistaken, Verhein's being lined up for a post at Army High Command. The Führer's apparently mad keen about him.' He shook his head. ‘Someone like Verhein? A general? A
Jew
? You know, a lot of people are going to look like fools if this is true.' Reinhardt said nothing, only feeling a surge of bitterness in his mouth as Thallberg echoed Padelin's words to him earlier. ‘Who gave you this?'

‘Her cameraman. We – the police and myself – thought he was in Zagreb. Turns out he was here and he's been in hiding since that night. With that.'

‘You've seen it?' Reinhardt nodded. ‘Who does it show?'

Reinhardt breathed deeply. ‘It shows her having sex with, and then being beaten by, a certain General Paul Verhein.'

Thallberg put his hands behind his neck, then drew them slowly down and around over his mouth. ‘Christ,' he said again. ‘
Christ!
Wait,' he said, suddenly. ‘It doesn't show her being killed? Or show Hendel?'

Reinhardt shook his head, looking at the red tip of his cigarette. ‘The film ends before that.'

‘
Fuck!
' exploded Thallberg, jumping out of his chair and beginning to pace around the room. ‘So we've got an army general caught on film getting his end away with this Croat skirt, then slapping her around. Then nothing. Then two dead bodies, one of them one of my men. Oh, Christ,' he said, putting his hands in the small of his back and stretching, looking at the ceiling. ‘What a mess.'

‘Has been from the beginning,' muttered Reinhardt. He followed Thallberg with his eyes as the captain paced around the room.

‘You recognised Verhein? On the film?'

‘I didn't,' replied Reinhardt. ‘I've never seen Verhein but the man on the film looked like that man in the photograph in the file while Vukić's cameraman identified him as the man she was seeing in Russia last year.'

Thallberg puffed air out, drawing his fingers back and forth across his lips. He eyed the file where it sat on Reinhardt's desk. ‘So what do you think?'

‘Honestly, I don't know.' He put his elbows on the desk and stubbed out his cigarette. He ground the butt out methodically, taking time to run his mind back over the rush of the day. ‘All right, then. A couple of things. I think you need to see the film, to confirm what I saw, and to possibly identify Verhein. You can identify him, can't you?' Thallberg nodded. ‘I'm not convinced Verhein killed Vukić. He may have killed Hendel, though, but the timing is all
off.'

‘Why?'

‘She lay on the floor after she was beaten, and she must have been lying there a good ten, fifteen minutes. I don't think he would've hung around. He'd have gone. He was scared. Of her, and of what he'd done.'

‘So what're you saying?'

‘I'm saying…' said Reinhardt, slowly, ‘I'm saying he's a general. And generals don't usually do things for themselves if they can avoid
it.'

‘His staff,' said Thallberg after a moment.

‘His staff,' agreed Reinhardt. ‘A witness reported a car that night, parked in front of Vukić's house. And a man. Almost certainly his driver.'

‘You think the
driver
killed the girl? And Hendel?'

Reinhardt shrugged, leaned back in his chair, and put his hands behind his neck. He thought for a moment. ‘Vukić's cameraman said Verhein had a bodyguard or servant who was devoted to him. An Asian, apparently. From Russia.'

Thallberg grunted. ‘Probably a Tartar. I know a few who joined up. Mad buggers, all of them, capable of anything. Some of the stuff I saw them do in Russia you wouldn't believe.'

‘No. Again, the timing's wrong. Or at least, if he did it, he'd have had to come back to do it.' He thought for a moment. ‘And it's not exactly in a driver's or servant's job description, is
it?'

‘What, to clean up an officer's mess? I know a few who have done just that.'

‘But this is murder,' protested Reinhardt. ‘You can't exactly order a driver to do that.'

‘Someone else, then,' said Thallberg.

‘Someone else,' agreed Reinhardt. He fished in his pocket and took out the list he had made yesterday. ‘A general's usually got his men close by him. Chief of staff for sure. For that planning conference, almost certainly his divisional intelligence officer. Maybe we could start there.'

Thallberg nodded. ‘Good a place as any, I suppose. Going to take some time, though.'

‘What can you do? Get access to personnel files? See who he's got around
him?'

‘Something like that. I'll have to do it at the State House, so you may as well come with me. It'll go faster if we're together.' Thallberg looked at his watch and Reinhardt stifled a sudden yawn, glancing behind him out the window. The sun was still up, but it was getting on for late afternoon. He realised he was exhausted. He rolled his head around on his neck, feeling the pull of tension on the muscles in his back. His shirt felt heavy and sticky, clinging tight around his neck and arms. ‘I think I was followed today.' Thallberg raised an eyebrow but said nothing. ‘They weren't yours, were they?'

Thallberg snorted. ‘No, Reinhardt. I don't have anyone following you.' He rose and stretched as well.

‘I'm also pretty sure that someone tried to get into –'

There was a knock at his door, and it began to open. Both Reinhardt and Thallberg froze, looking at the file on the desk. Thallberg made to move towards it, but Reinhardt shook his head before turning to see who was coming in. It was Freilinger. The major looked between the pair of them as they came to their feet, his eyes fastening on Thallberg.

‘You
are?'

‘Captain Thallberg, sir. 118th Jäger.'

Freilinger looked at Reinhardt. ‘Is this the one you told me about?' Reinhardt nodded, ignoring the slightly accusatory look Thallberg sent him. Freilinger's eyes fell on the file on the table, but he said nothing about it. ‘You are making progress?' he asked Reinhardt. He held an envelope in his hands.

Reinhardt nodded, suddenly unsure how much he could confide in Freilinger. That difference in the lists came suddenly to mind. An oversight, perhaps. But perhaps something else. In any case, Reinhardt realised, where did he himself stand now? That morning's talk with Freilinger had seemed pretty clear. Reinhardt was on his own with this. Who, Reinhardt asked himself, did he actually work for? ‘Yes, sir,' he replied. ‘Good progress. I think I have the main suspect.'

‘Oh?'

Again, that hesitation. Reinhardt resisted looking at Thallberg. ‘I can confidently place General Paul Verhein at the scene of the crime that evening, and I know it was him who beat the woman, Marija Vukić.'

Freilinger's expression did not change. ‘Verhein?' he repeated. ‘Commander of… 121st Jäger? You think he's involved?'

‘I don't think, sir. I know.' Freilinger raised his eyebrows, inviting him to go on. ‘I have a film that shows him sexually involved with Vukić the night of her murder. I know they were having an affair in Russia and I now know Hendel was following and reporting on him to the SD in Berlin.'

Without taking his eyes from Reinhardt, Freilinger took his tin of mints from his pocket and put one in his mouth. ‘Well, well,' he said, his voice a dry rasp. He looked at Thallberg. ‘Quite something, wouldn't you say, Captain?'

‘Yes, I would say so,
sir.'

‘I would say so,' Freilinger repeated, quietly. He worked his mouth around his mint and turned those blue eyes on Reinhardt. ‘What
now?'

‘Now,' answered Reinhardt, with only the slightest hesitation, ‘we are going to continue our research. At the State House.'

‘Will you confront him? Verhein?'

Reinhardt and Thallberg looked at each other. ‘I don't know, sir,' answered Thallberg. ‘We still need more evidence, and we haven't much time. So if you will excuse us…
?'

Freilinger nodded. ‘Carry on,' he said.

‘Was there something you needed, sir?' asked Reinhardt.

Freilinger put the envelope on Reinhardt's desk. ‘This is for you.' He stepped back, and it was then Reinhardt saw it. A tension in the major's bearing, his arms stiff at his sides, and the knuckles showing white across his closed fists. ‘Perhaps you will let me know later what you find.' He paused and swallowed, slowly. ‘Well done, Reinhardt. Well done, indeed. Gentlemen,' he said to them both, and left.

Reinhardt felt a flood of tension wash out of him he had not known was there. He picked up the envelope and took out a sheet of typed paper. He read it with a mixture of relief and disappointment before folding it back up and putting it in his pocket. He looked at Thallberg, who was waiting for him, his face expressionless. ‘State House?' ­Reinhardt asked, picking up the file and the film case, not wanting to let them out of his sight. Thallberg nodded. ‘Then after you,' he said.

29

T
hallbe
rg kicked his office door open, holding the rebound for Reinhardt. ‘Coffee?' he asked, as he swept up the same two mugs from earlier that day. It seemed like Reinhardt had been drinking it all day long, but he nodded anyway. Thallberg leaned into the corridor and hollered someone's name. As he waited, he pushed open his window and chucked the dregs out, apparently not caring on whom they might fall. Reinhardt found himself peculiarly struck by that act. Seemingly nonchalant, throwing coffee out of a window in a place like the State House, but he had seen him not a half an hour ago, crippled with sudden nervousness at the thought of where this case might actually lead him. What might it mean, he suddenly wondered, if it came to the crunch? Would Thallberg fold or stand tall?

Thallberg handed the mugs over to a noncom who knocked at the door. He shucked off his jacket, letting it drop over the back of a chair, and put his hands on his hips. ‘Right, then. Now what?'

Reinhardt took out his list of units in Schwarz and the list of conference participants that Thallberg had given him that morning. ‘With Verhein and his staff, like we said. Who does he have around him? Who came with him to Ilidža for the conference? Do we have anything on any of them?'

Thallberg gave a small smirk. ‘ “We”?'

‘Turn of phrase,' said Reinhardt, keeping his eyes on his lists, but he felt himself colour. He took out his pen and began marking the names on the list of conference participants of officers from the 121st. Verhein. Colonel Ascher, his chief of staff. Colonel Gärtner, divisional intelligence officer. Colonel Oelker, commanding the first regiment, probably the most senior of the combat officers. Major Jahn, divisional medical officer. And a Major Nadolski, divisional quartermaster. Six names. He jotted them down, then handed what he had written to Thallberg.

The captain looked it over. ‘So, where will you start with that?'

‘Well,' said Reinhardt, as he sat back and lit a cigarette, ‘I would start with connections. Someone put the Feldgendarmerie onto this case. Had Becker looking for Krause. What would make Becker do that?'

‘Self-interest?' asked Thallberg, his eyebrows raised.

‘Possibly,' replied Reinhardt, his voice noncommittal.

‘Blackmail?'

‘Maybe. Although that's always tricky, blackmail. You might have something on someone and get them to do something against their will. But in doing it, they in turn have something on you. It can get out of hand quite quickly.'

‘Friendship?' asked Thallberg. He looked, for a moment, like a boy who had answered a trick question posed by a teacher, and expected any second to be ridiculed for
it.

Reinhardt nodded. ‘Friendship. That's a powerful force. They all are, in their way. Self-interest. Blackmail. Friendship. Could be any of the three, or something else, but from what I know about Becker, it'll be self-interest. What we're looking for is a connection between one, or more, of these men and Becker.' He drew on his cigarette, then pointed it at the list of names. ‘Very likely, someone in this lot murdered Hendel and Vukić, and then brought in Becker to start clearing it all
up.'

‘Or Becker heard about it, and got involved in return for something?'

Reinhardt inhaled, holding the smoke in his mouth, then exhaled slowly. The smoke drifted up into his eyes, making him narrow them and squint. He nodded. ‘Could well be.' Thallberg looked absurdly pleased with himself. ‘Makes our life a lot harder, though. If that's what happened, then we're never going to find a connection.'

‘So what, then?'

‘So we assume there is one, and work off that assumption for
now.'

Thallberg rubbed his eyes, and yawned. ‘What do we need?'

‘We need to match up Becker with Verhein's staff. For that, we need service histories. I can pretty much lay out Becker's, but I don't know anything about these others.'

‘Right, then, let's see what we can do here,' said Thallberg, sighing the words out, almost talking to himself. ‘Army administrative files are over at the Kosevo Polje barracks.' He looked at Reinhardt, but Reinhardt felt Thallberg was looking
through
him. ‘Want to take a chance? Let's see what we've got here. Gestapo might have something. The boys in the security police might have, too…' His voice trailed off as he jotted something down on the piece of paper Reinhardt had given him and walked over to the door. ‘Beike!' he called. Thallberg handed over his piece of paper with some muttered instructions, then took the coffee from another soldier and pushed the door shut with his foot.

‘Now what?' asked Reinhardt. Maybe it was because he had worked alone so long, with people he knew either meant him harm or would not stand in the way of any harm which came his way, but ­Reinhardt could not get over an unease he felt at the way he saw Thallberg sharing tasks and information around without any apparent qualms.

‘Now we wait.' Which was what Thallberg did, feet up on the desk, mug held to his lips, eyebrows lowered. He rocked himself slowly back and forth on the two back legs of his chair, apparently lost in thought. Reinhardt would have liked to relax like that, but his mind kept bumping around, back and forth over the events of the day. The morning's depression, the revelations, the elation… the day seemed to be never-ending. He yawned, abruptly. More to keep his hands busy, he began to jot down what he knew – postings and dates – of Becker's career since he had been kicked out of Kripo.

Becker was off the force and out of Berlin by the end of 1936.
­
Reinhardt heard he had gone south, to Munich, tried to set himself up as a private investigator, and then nothing more about him for several years after that. When the war started, he learned Becker was a police instructor at the Feldgendarmerie training centre. How he managed that with his record, and what favours he had called in to secure that post, Reinhardt had no idea. It did not save him from frontline postings, however. Reinhardt knew Becker had been in the invasion of Poland as a company commander in a police battalion. Then Yugoslavia. He had come in behind the initial invasion, back in April 1941, then on to Greece, then back to Serbia. Postings in Belgrade, then Niš, then Sarajevo.

‘You know, if we can't find anything here, we might have to call Berlin,' said Thallberg. He looked at Reinhardt over the rim of his cup. ‘Ready for that?'

Reinhardt was saved from having to answer by a knock at the door. Corporal Beike stepped inside with several files and papers in his hands, which he handed to Thallberg. ‘This is all?' the captain asked.

‘Just what we've got. I'm still talking to the Gestapo about what they might have.'

‘Any trouble?'

‘The usual, sir. No need for you to get involved just
yet.'

‘ ‘Trouble'?' asked Reinhardt. He stood and came around to Thallberg's side of the desk. There really was not much. Three flimsy cardboard files with loose papers inside them. Ascher, Nadolski, and Jahn.

‘The Gestapo doesn't always like to share. It's a common failing of most bureaucracies, I've found. Especially feudal ones like ours,' he said, winking ironically as he passed Reinhardt two folders, those of Majors Jahn and Nadolski.

There was not much. Major Jahn was suspected of being addicted to morphine, of siphoning off supplies of it for his own use and trafficking it to other units. Major Nadolski had been reprimanded for misusing official transport on several occasions, including once to transport a load of women (the women were down as entertainment for the officers). He looked at Thallberg. ‘Nothing,' he said, his mouth twisted with frustration. He got up, putting his hands in the small of his back, and looked out the window. ‘You?'

Thallberg shrugged without looking up, leafing over a page. ‘Ascher apparently put his hand up an altar boy's cassock in Zagreb.' He frowned at the last page. ‘There's reference to a previous inquiry, before the war,' he muttered. ‘There's a note here about a police investigation in Munich. Something similar, back in thirty-seven. Nothing else.' He tossed the folder down on the desk.

‘Jahn likes morphine, and Nadolski misuses divisional transport.'

Thallberg chuckled. ‘So Verhein's staff consists of a suspected bum bandit, a morphine addict, and a transport officer who transports things of dubious military value. Pretty tame stuff for these times, don't you think?'

Reinhardt nodded, despite not liking Thallberg's levity. There ­really was not very much.

‘Excuse me, sir.' Reinhardt looked around. Beike was looking at the list of names, the officers from the 121st. He picked it up, and looked over at Thallberg. ‘Sir, excuse my intervention, but I believe there is a name missing.'

‘Missing?' asked Thallberg, glancing at Reinhardt.

‘I believe there is one more officer who should be on the list. ­Colonel… that is, Standartenführer… Stolić.'

Reinhardt frowned, walking slowly towards Beike. ‘Stolić? He's 7th
SS.'

‘Yes, sir,' the corporal replied. ‘He is also the liaison officer to Verhein. Between the 121st and the Ustaše. He was assigned to that duty last week.'

Chance
, thought Reinhardt, the first thing that came into his mind.
Chance again. What are the odds that a clerk, a corporal, would see that list… ? And know that information… ?
And the second thing he thought, he thought about the odds that Freilinger did not know that. Had not known it, all the time Reinhardt had been investigating this.

‘Who is this Stolić?' asked Thallberg, looking at Reinhardt.

‘He's come up a few times in the investigation. A nasty piece of work. Croat Volksdeutsche, in the SS. He had a thing for Vukić, but she wasn't interested in
him.'

‘What else do you know, Corporal?' asked Thallberg.

‘The captain is correct, sir. Standartenführer Stolić has a reputation as a drinker and womaniser. He is also, as the captain said, a “nasty piece of work”. There have been several complaints about his behaviour towards captured prisoners of war and against civilians. The Italians in particular have been most vociferous about him. That's why he's been transferred, I believe. The Seventh is operating in the Italian zone and they'll have nothing to do with
him.'

‘Go on, Corporal,' said Reinhardt.

‘Stolić has a sort of band around him. Men like him. According to what I know, most of them met in Spain where they fought for the nationalist forces. Stolić returned from there with a nom de guerre.
El Cuchillo.
I believe it means “the knife”.' Reinhardt and Thallberg exchanged glances. ‘Stolić is known for carrying one. A very large knife, called a Bowie. According to the way he tells it, he took it from an American he killed in Spain.'

‘Thank you, Corporal. You have been most helpful.' He waited until the door had closed before turning to Reinhardt. ‘Well? What do you think?' There was a gleam in Thallberg's eyes.

Reinhardt too felt a rise of excitement, but he paused before answering. ‘I think it sounds good.' Thallberg grinned, the gleam in his eyes brightening. ‘But this is what my old instructor would call an orgy of evidence. It sounds almost too good to be true.'

‘Some things are, though, aren't they?' asked Thallberg, somehow giving the impression of a disappointed little
boy.

‘Some things. Not many. And not usually in this line of work.'

‘So where does this leave us, then?'

Reinhardt thought for a moment. ‘We have two names. Verhein and Stolić. We know Verhein had an affair with Vukić, and we can place him at the scene. He was at the conference, staying at the hotel, and we have him on camera with her. We know he beat her unconscious. We can also place Stolić at the hotel. I got confirmation of that from the hotel staff. He was upset and disruptive, and we know he had a thing for Vukić. He carries a knife, and Vukić was killed with one. A large one, with a particular shape to its blade. I can also place Major Becker at or near the scene. He was called out to calm Stolić down. And we know the Feldgendarmerie were on the case sooner than I was, and the only way that could have happened was if the killer told them about
it.'

Thallberg thought for a moment. ‘But that doesn't mean the Feldgendarmerie know or knew the killer was actually the killer.'

‘No, but there's a bloody good chance that's what happened. Think about it. The Feldgendarmerie have produced no suspects. They haven't even admitted they're investigating. Why would they do that? Why wouldn't they at least interview the officer or officers who reported the murder?' Thallberg nodded. ‘It's because they're in on it. Becker has something to gain from this, but what I don't know.'

The two of them were silent a moment. ‘So, what's your theory, then?' asked Thallberg.

‘Vukić and Hendel planned to confront Verhein with the evidence that he is a Jew, and that there has been an internal investigation into him for some time. I think Vukić couldn't, or wouldn't, wait for Hendel to get to her, and confronted him herself. Enraged, he beat her. He fled. He spoke to his friends, or to his staff. They agreed to clean things up for him. Stolić was one of them. He hated Vukić for always turning him down, disrespecting him. They went around to her house, finding her conscious. He stabbed her to death. The police doctor always thought the stabbing was the work of a man deranged. I think Stolić fits that bill, and he carries a knife. Becker was brought in to help clean
up.'

He paused.

‘But… ?' prompted Thallberg.

‘But… there's the question of the blood. The mess…' Reinhardt trailed off again, thinking back to the hotel, the talk with Ewald, and then with the maid. What she said she had seen. What she had not seen…

‘What about the mess?'

‘There wasn't enough of it at the hotel,' said Reinhardt, still distracted. ‘And I can't figure out why and how Becker would agree to be part of this. What did he know? Or see…
?'