Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2)

by Christopher P Jones

  ‘What do you want?’ he mumbled to himself.

  She called out from the car door in a strong, confident voice. ‘I just wanted to say thank you, again. Thank you for helping us earlier.’

  Arno gave a cursory nod of acceptance and began in the other direction. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with her again. He had the money in his pocket and that was where he wanted it to stay.

  The motorcar edged around the corner and began to tail him as he walked. He glanced over his shoulder. Unless he broke into a run, it would easily keep pace. And why should he run anyway? He had nothing to hide and nothing to deny.

  The woman was still teetering through the open door. He could see she was wearing different clothes from the night before, more formal now, as if a disguise had been removed and put away in a drawer.

  ‘Come and ride with us for a few minutes,’ she said. ‘We can give you a lift. We’ll take you wherever you need to go.’

  He walked forward, but the insistence of the car crawling beside him was weakening his resolve. And it was a beautiful looking car, deep blue in colour, with ribbons of silver along its flank. And the woman was beautiful too, he could hardly deny it. Perhaps they knew something about Monika. It was possible.

  As if this last thought had given him permission, he found himself climbing into the car and onto the back seat next to the woman. It felt odd – unreal, a touch obscene – to be sat there so close to her in this luxurious car. Once again she was the svelte beauty he had first seen the night before. The way she looked, it was hard to believe she had spent the night on the same train as him.

  ‘I’m so tired,’ he admitted, excusing his own dishevelled state. He looked down at his shoes and began to wish he’d visited the shoe-shiner after all. ‘Don’t you feel tired?’ he asked.

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘All night on that train. I hardly slept.’

  ‘In our line of work, you learn to postpone tiredness.’ She was curt and self-assured. ‘Have I introduced myself yet?’ she went on. ‘My name is Hannah Baumer.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘That depends. Where would you like us to take you?’

  ‘Nowhere. I was just going for a walk.’

  ‘Just walking?’

  ‘Just walking.’

  ‘And where have you been just now?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘You haven’t been somewhere in particular?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure. What about a few minutes ago. Tell me, where have you been? Arno, isn’t it? Where have you been, Arno?’

  He didn’t remember telling her his name, but then again, his memory of the night before was a mess. He decided to follow his best instincts and deny everything. ‘I’m telling you. I haven’t been anywhere.’

  ‘You don’t live around here, do you?’

  ‘No. How do you know that?’

  ‘Just a guess. The way you were gazing into that shop window, like you were lost. But if you don’t live in this district, why would you be here?’

  ‘I’m just looking. I thought I might buy something. I have money now – don’t you remember?’

  ‘You are buying someone a gift!’

  ‘A gift for myself, actually.’

  ‘And you haven’t been anywhere else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not to a house? Nearby?’

  Arno shook his head. He suddenly felt very assured, sat on the leather seat in this beautiful car. He could go on denying things all afternoon.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve been to visit someone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve been to see the Goldstein family?’

  ‘Who?’ Arno’s voice faltered. He gave a contemptuous shrug of his shoulder, trying to subdue his alarm. What did they know? He realised he had to tread more carefully.

  ‘The Goldsteins. I believe they have a daughter.’

  ‘Do they? I don’t know any Goldsteins.’

  ‘What about their daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think her name is Monika.’

  Hearing Monika’s name said aloud sent a jolt of panic through him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘Why would you deny it? I know you’ve been to see the Goldsteins. You were there only half-an-hour ago. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘I’d like to get out now please?’

  ‘Monika Goldstein. You like her don’t you?’

  Part of him wanted to jump out of the car and run. But part of him wanted to stay. He felt he must owe it to Monika to find out what this woman knew.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘So you do know Monika Goldstein?’

  ‘Monika and I are friends. But that’s none of your business. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Friends? I see. That’s why you were at her parent’s house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? Why would you visit them? Why would you visit them today?’

  ‘You tell me. You seem to know more about me than I do! You tell me why I went. Then you can tell me why I’m in this car, talking to you.’ Speaking in this way, with a turn of hostility, he felt he had regained some advantage. It was no use being timid in these circumstances. Return a question with another question: that seemed to be the game here.

  ‘Because you are worried about her,’ the woman said. ‘That’s why you got into the car. Well? Aren’t you worried about her?’

  ‘Why would I be worried about her?’

  ‘You are worried because you don’t know where she is. Where is she now? Where is Monika?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve absolutely no idea. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘That’s why I’m asking you.’

  Presently, the car began to pick up speed as it manoeuvred onto a main road that led through the city.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ Arno asked, recognising the change of pace.

  Hannah Baumer didn’t answer.

  He sat back in his seat. There was no point in trying to get away. The police knew something and he had to find out what it was. He might have expected to despise the idea, but that wasn’t how he felt at all. Instead, it felt strangely pleased, almost lyrical, to be in this car sweeping along the streets of Berlin. He felt he was being scooped up into something he didn’t understand but which could alter his life. Something special was happening to him, and for once he felt as he always hoped to feel: significant.

  7

  The conversation with Hannah Baumer fell into silence. Through the car window, Arno watched the city he recognised – had come to adore – flash by. It was the familiar cascade of hotels, department stores and grand city apartments, along boulevards with trees and streetlamps, cafés and bars, only this time sped up, like one of those movies at the Gloria-Filmpalast. As the car raced at what seemed like a headlong rush, he doubted he had ever travelled so fast through the streets of his own town.

  It wasn’t long before they were in the industrial suburbs. A large, anonymous building loomed up in front of them. It was a red-brick block, big and stout like a wrestler, with metal staircases on the outside and small fogged-up windows dotted apparently randomly across the walls. They had driven to a sort of wasteland, where piles of rubble and thickets of brambles lay strewn across a patch of wild grass.

  Within a few moments they were out of the car, crossing the wasteland and climbing one of the metal staircases. The clang of footsteps caused the stairs to vibrate, and Arno enjoyed listening to the dim humming sound as they ascended. He walked behind Baumer, whose high-heeled shoes occasionally caught in the metal grill. He watched with curiosity as she had to wriggle herself free. He had the sense that she always disliked this climb and wished one day that their headquarters would move to more well-to-do circumstances.

  Soon they came to a door which led into a corridor. From the corridor, several more doorways. Finally, they were in a room that had nothing but a small desk an
d a narrow bed in the corner. At this point, Arno was told he could lie down if he wanted.

  ‘Sleep for a time, if it suits you,’ came a voice, someone he didn’t recognise.

  ‘You must be tired after your train journey last night,’ said another.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Arno replied. ‘Let’s get on with this.’

  He was now accompanied by several new people. He turned around to find that Hannah Baumer was gone, replaced by a huddle of youngish men in brown suits and narrow neckties. They all had fiercely combed hair and pale faces, and were not threatening except perhaps for the way they clung together and swapped looks, as if sharing thoughts between them telepathically.

  Arno had never been in circumstances like this before, but now he was here, escorted by these prissy young men whom he easily looked down upon, he was enjoying it. With so much attention lavished on him, he felt like royalty. They led him from this small room along another corridor – it was hard to say if they’d walked this one before – and in through an archway. This room was much bigger. It had a large rectangular table in the centre with about ten chairs around the edges, and next to it, a smaller table with a typewriter. Hung on the far wall was a painting, a landscape with trees and billowing clouds, framed in gold. On the opposite wall hung a large map of Berlin made up of pink and green lines. And in the far corner, there was a metal-and-glass cubicle with a telephone inside.

  Arno was invited to sit at the big table and make himself comfortable. Someone handed him a glass of water, which was deliciously chilled and went down his throat like a cool wind on a hot day. Then from a side-door, the man he recognised from the train – that ugly dog with the perfect teeth – entered and sat down opposite. Only this time he didn’t seem so ugly. He’d shaved and combed his hair and look refreshed, even a touch dapper in a pressed suit and a pair of polished shoes. He had that air of confidence, an ability possessed by rare individuals, to overcome their God-given shortcomings with a fresh coat of panache. When he sat down opposite Arno, he placed his hands on the tabletop, palms down and gazed across with hypnotic eyes. It felt like he was about to perform a magic trick.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ Arno started up. He wanted to sound assertive but not too demanding as to cause affront. He was surprised at how relaxed he felt. He began to think he could influence the course of things, if he could only keep his nerve.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ the police agent said.

  ‘Where’s Monika?’ Arno snapped back.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Vendetta.’

  There was that word again, the one he’d used on the train. ‘Vendetta,’ Arno replied. He realised it was a word he’d already developed a fondness for, a secret pass that had released him from all kinds of trouble.

  ‘Vendetta,’ the man repeated, this time with a grave undertow in his voice.

  ‘It’s just a word,’ Arno said, trying to dispute the theatrics. ‘A code. Is it not?’

  ‘Yes, except it’s much more than that. It is a codeword, yes, but it’s also something else. It’s like an iceberg: there’s much more beneath the surface we can’t see.’

  Arno gave a shrug, as if to say, nonchalantly, ‘Tell me more.’ He realised he could act the part if the moment required. He didn’t need expensive clothing to have his say.

  ‘For now, a little history lesson, if you will indulge me.’

  Arno nodded. He was in no rush to go anywhere.

  ‘What do you know of the Munich Putsch?’

  That was unexpected. The Munich Putsch? Arno knew most of it. It had been seven or eight years now, but everybody from his world was familiar with the story. Midway through a beer-hall speech by some Bavarian commissioner, a young Adolf Hitler clambered onto the stage and declared a revolution. It was a rebellion that came to nothing, but not before Hitler and about 3,000 fellow zealots made a play for half the beer-halls in Munich. Police opened fire, killing a few. Hitler was injured – he ended up in prison for his troubles. As far as Arno knew, the putsch was a failure and people looked back on it now with resigned embarrassment.

  ‘Well, that’s what we’re on the lookout for again,’ the police agent went on. He sat back, lifting his palms from the table and crossing his arms. ‘We think Vendetta may be a codeword for something similar. An underground plot to displace the Reichstag. But this time, they want to make sure it succeeds.’

  ‘Are you expecting me to know anything about this?’ Arno said. He felt his presence growing in the room. He knew he was significant, but what the hell did they want with him?

  The agent in the pressed suit nodded. ‘These are your people, aren’t they?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The fascists.’

  ‘I don’t know any fascists.’ Arno gave a blank shake of the head. Frankly, he hardly knew what the word really meant.

  ‘The National Socialists. The Nazis. They’re fascists, are they not?’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Yes. And you’re a member of their party.’

  ‘Incorrect. I’ve never been a member.’

  ‘We know more about you than you realise. We know you have contacts. We know you attempted to perpetrate’ – the agent paused, making sure he got his words just right – ‘we know you understand the agenda of these people very well.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never been a member,’ Arno said adamantly, sitting back in his chair to mimic the agent. He fell silent as he began to understand. A few years ago he’d been involved in some anti-Communist activity on the part of the Nazi Party. It wasn’t much and it wasn’t official – he’d never been a member, that was true enough – but he had been involved. He helped print and distribute propaganda leaflets: made-up stories about a man being murdered and how the Communists wanted to cover it up. The whole thing had been a failure, like the putsch, but he couldn’t help but remain proud of his efforts. It was, he would admit, an exciting time in his life.

  He gazed across at the police agent, wondering what all of this meant. Did they really have information about that? It seemed so long ago. And what else did they know?

  The man’s next words confirmed it. ‘You befriended a man named Erich Ostwald. We know that together you plotted to stir up sentiment against the Communist party. You produced propaganda material. Isn’t that the case?

  Arno felt unable to deny it, only to say that was long in the past. ‘I’ve moved on with my life since then,’ he said. It was true. He’d lost interest in politics and he’d not seen Erich Ostwald in all that time. They’d met at a meeting one night. Erich was charismatic and had a philosophic air about him that drew in the younger recruits. They all spoke the same language, about wanting to protect their country and its traditions. It felt like a noble cause at the time. Arno heard Erich Ostwald had gone to Spain since then, leaving everyone – including his pregnant fiancé – in the process. If Arno ever saw him again, he wouldn’t be as trusting as he was the first time.

  ‘Moved on with your life?’

  ‘I would never get involved with the likes of Erich Ostwald again,’ Arno said. ‘Let me put it that way.’

  ‘We think Erich Ostwald is back in Germany. And we think he may be involved in Vendetta. Does that news mean anything to you?’

  ‘No. Why should it? I haven’t seen him or heard from him.’

  ‘He hasn’t tried to contact you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know anybody who has heard from him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Fine. That’s fine. Maybe you could tell me something else. What you think about politics?’

  ‘Politics? Not much. I’ve given up caring.’

  ‘What about Communism? Don’t you have an opinion? What if it came to Germany?’

  Arno couldn’t help take the bait. ‘Communism? It would more than likely ruin us if we ever adopted it.’

  ‘Races? What do you think about people from other backgrounds. Non-Ge
rmans? Africans? Jews?’

  ‘I’m not against anybody in particular.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘But,’ Arno went on, ‘I wonder if there shouldn’t be some rules of segregation. Why would we choose to dilute our people? What I mean is, we could end up weakening everybody.’ Arno listened to his own words reverberate around the room and felt a stir of alarm at how easily he expressed himself. ‘I am not the first person to say such things,’ he added cautiously.

  ‘Are you not seeing a Jewish girl? How does she fit into your view? Or don’t you mind being called a hypocrite.’

  ‘I’m not a hypocrite.’

  ‘Monika? Is she not Jewish?’

  ‘Her parents are. But that doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter? Does she not fall under your – how did you put it? – your rules of segregation?’

  ‘I never said anything about Jews. You did!’

  ‘Are they not included in your grand vision?’

  Arno began to feel tongue-tied. He couldn’t quite explain what he meant or how he felt when the question of Monika was introduced. She was different. She was an entirely separate question. She had her own grace and charm, her own unique style.

  The man across the table took a change of tack. He spoke now in more abstract terms, returning to the subject of Vendetta. He told Arno that he had to understand that any organisation that wanted to threaten the government was also a threat to the greater scheme. He said that as it grew, such an organisation would eventually become unstable, with leaders and followers bidding for power, with a hierarchy of internal competition.

  ‘Movements like this become bloated and mistrustful. Individuals grow protective over their gains. They want to extend their territories and win the support of the lesser men. That’s when the cracks begin to show. That’s when the most foolhardy become vulnerable. Paranoia sow seeds of doubt. This is where you should find your opportunity. Carve a place for yourself, like a weed growing between bricks in the wall.’

  ‘You want me to infiltrate Vendetta?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The police agent nodded and began to smile. He explained that they wanted Arno to report back to them with written descriptions of all he saw and heard, however inconsequential the details may seem to him.