by Conor Brady
‘You take very seriously the murder of a waitress? Is that usual in your country?’
It was an extraordinary question, Swallow thought. Yet, he realised, the murder of Alice Flannery was not a matter of great import to his own masters in the Upper Yard of Dublin Castle. Perhaps in Germany there was more honesty about what was important and what was not.
‘Well,’ he answered slowly, ‘it may not be important to everyone. But it’s important to me and to my colleagues in the police. And it may be linked to other crimes as well.’
‘I think I understand,’ Pfaus said. ‘And this man, Carmody, is he a suspect? He has a record of violence.’
‘Let me put it this way . . . he’s not off the list of possible suspects. He left Dublin immediately after the murder. And as I told you, he worked in the same restaurant as the murder victim.’
Pfaus nodded.
‘It’s far from conclusive, but professionally I’d take the same view. He must at least be a suspect.’
He paused.
‘I appreciate that you may not want to share all your information with me since the murder is in your jurisdiction and not mine. But if you can tell me more about these cases I may be able to help you.’
‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t tell you what I know. You’ve been generous enough to offer your assistance. Dublin is generally a safe city for women. It’s well policed, and it’s very rare for any female to be molested or troubled. But there’s been a series of attacks in the past two months. Two women are dead, and another has been badly injured.’
‘I have heard, of course, about these so-called Ripper murders in London,’ Pfaus said. ‘They appear to have baffled even the famous detectives of Scotland Yard. I did not realise there were similar cases in other British cities.’
‘I’m not suggesting there’s any similarity between our cases in Dublin and those in London,’ Swallow said. ‘Dublin is a very different kind of place from London. And it’s not British, like I told you; it’s Irish.’
Pfaus shrugged.
‘Very well. But you believe there is a link between these attacks in Dublin?’
‘We don’t know. We haven’t got very far in identifying a definite suspect. There are a number of possibilities, but nothing that one could bring a charge on.’
‘So where does the Kriminalpolizei’s guest, Mr Michael James Carmody, fit into your inquiries?’
Swallow took another shot of Schnapps.
‘I don’t have any reason to connect him to any crime other than the case I’ve described, the murder of the young waitress called Alice Flannery. She was the first to be attacked. I’ve told you her employer is a man who is from Berlin. His name is Stefan Werner. Does that name mean anything to you?’
Pfaus shook his head.
‘The name is not familiar to me. Of course, Werner is not an unusual name. There are probably thousands of them in Berlin. What happened to the young woman?’
‘She walked home from the restaurant late at night, and some person or persons attacked her in a dark laneway not far from her home. She was badly beaten, but it seems that she fought back as best she could. She was found by two soldiers returning to barracks nearby. They brought her to the hospital, but she died a few hours later. The cause of death was injuries to the head, possibly inflicted by a heavy wooden stake that was found nearby.’
‘I presume you’re satisfied the soldiers weren’t involved?’ Pfaus said. ‘They’d be on my list of suspects.’
‘Naturally it was one of our first lines of inquiry,’ Swallow told him. ‘But it was clear very quickly that they were telling the truth when they said they came upon her as they returned to their barracks.’
‘So is Carmody a suspect? What’s his connection?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out. We checked out all the listed employees at the New Vienna. There was the possibility that some of her fellow workers might have been involved. Carmody’s name was not included in the list of employees given to us by the restaurant. But after I received your telegram I revisited the place and they confirmed that he did in fact work there for a time. He was a troublemaker. He threatened to kill another kitchen worker, and according to Werner he stole money from the office.’
Pfaus nodded.
‘Ah, I see. I think I understand a little more now. Did the owners of the restaurant tell you why they did not have his name on the list of employees?’
‘They said they don’t keep details of casual workers. And in reality, it seems, that’s the practice in the hotels and restaurants in Dublin.’
Pfaus grinned.
‘They wouldn’t get away with that in Berlin, I promise you. The German Empire is strong and prosperous. One of the reasons is that our administration systems are very thorough. Your Mr Carmody had to be registered to work. That is how we knew who he is and where he came from.’
‘Your intelligence system must be very thorough,’ Swallow said.
Pfaus nodded.
‘So,’ he said, ‘will you tell me about the other cases?’
‘A young girl of about the same age, in this instance a fishmonger, was attacked and very badly injured in what looks like a similar attack a few nights later in another part of the city, perhaps twenty to thirty minutes’ walk from the first crime. She has survived, but she can tell us little beyond saying that her attacker was a big man. Again, we can’t identify any motive.’
‘And the other crime?’ Pfaus asked.
‘Somewhat different. A young prostitute was killed in the city centre in her room. A policeman saw a tall, well-built fellow running from the scene. And we may have identified a motive. It seems she had come into possession of some money, and some petty criminals may have known about it. As I said, random violence against women is rare in Dublin, so we’re keeping an open mind about possible connections.’
‘But you’ve got no connection for this Carmody to any of these crimes except the murder of the waitress?’
‘That’s true,’ Swallow conceded. ‘So tell me, Johann, what sort of man is he?’
‘Uneducated but not unintelligent, I would think. I’ve interrogated him myself. He gives very little away. He doesn’t frighten easily. Now it seems he thinks he has some information to trade, so he is, how would you say, a bit cocksure of himself.’
Swallow smiled again.
‘Your English is excellent, Kapitän Pfaus. Learned in America, I think?’
‘Thank you,’ Pfaus nodded. ‘Yes, you have a good ear, Detective Inspector Swallow. I was raised in the Bronx, New York City. My wife, Elena, she is American but of German parentage also. My parents had emigrated from Prussia. Then when my father inherited a small business from his uncle, the family returned to Berlin. I was a United States citizen until I became a policeman, when I had to choose to be a German.’
‘Do you think you made the right choice in that?’ Swallow asked.
Pfaus smiled.
‘I understand your question. You English think that your systems of government and law are superior to everywhere else. You think of your police as servants of the community rather than the instrument through which government keeps order. Well, that’s just one viewpoint you know.’
He proffered the flask again.
‘There’s a little left,’ he grinned. ‘You finish it.’
Swallow drained the last of the schnapps.
‘I’ve already told you. I’m not English. I’m Irish. And the Irish people certainly don’t think of the police as the servants of the community, or whatever phrase you’ve used. They actually are the means by which the government keeps order. If you can call it order. The police are not popular in Ireland.’
Pfaus looked puzzled.
‘But in New York all the police are Irish. Sure, they have to deal with troublemakers. But they’re respected, and it’s considered an honour to have a son or a brother in the police department. In truth, the New York police department wouldn’t function without the Irish.’
> Swallow smiled ruefully.
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that in Ireland, Johann. In fact, it’s a lot more complicated.’
Friday January 4th, 1889
Chapter 32
It was mid morning by the time they reached Hamburg. Through the windows Swallow saw a dull, dark city with a few thin spires reaching skywards. They switched to the train for Berlin that stood on the next platform at the bahnhof, the red-and-black engine belching steam. Frost glistened on the brass plate fastened to the boiler, displaying the imperial arms of the Hohenzollern dynasty.
Pfaus selected seats in a first-class carriage. Swallow’s travel arrangements, priced and booked by Mallon’s parsimonious clerk, Jack Burton, relegated him to second class for this part of his journey. He could see that the second-class carriages were already crowded, but first class was almost empty. As if sensing his doubt, Pfaus waved a hand airily around the compartment.
‘Officers of the Kriminalpolizei have the privilege of first-class travel without charge while on duty,’ he grinned, ‘as do their guests.’
Shortly after the train got under way they went to lunch in the first-class dining carriage. A good ham terrine was followed by veal in pastry. Pfaus ordered a bottle of Riesling, crisp and white, to wash it down. Swallow settled back in the plush banquette seat and watched the countryside roll past the window.
Snow lay here and there, piled in drifts along the railway embankment. The countryside was as flat and featureless as his native Kildare, but the layout of the farmland was different. At home, fields were generally bounded by high ditches. Here, longer and wider strips of land were divided by straight, shallow gullies. The farmhouses were different too. The larger ones were squat and solid with wooden trusses at the gable ends. He thought they lacked the simple Georgian elegance of the two-storeyed dwellings favoured by strong farming families in rural Ireland, but, he reflected, had he been travelling on his own he would have liked to attempt a simple sketch of the structure.
They reached Berlin shortly before five o’clock. Through the frosting windows Swallow could see lines of carriages and cabs, oil lanterns flaring in the early evening darkness, jostling on the cobbled forecourt of the bahnhof.
Two uniformed policemen sprang to a perfectly synchronised salute as they emerged past the ticket barrier. One reached to take Swallow’s suitcase.
‘Guten Abend, Herr Hauptmann. Ihre Anweisungen bitte.’
‘I have arranged accommodation for you at Hotel Bremen, off Wilhelmstrasse,’ Pfaus told Swallow. ‘It’s a good hotel, and it’s just one minute from our headquarters. My men will bring you there now, so you can wash, rest for a while or whatever you wish. Would you like to start your interrogation of the prisoner this evening, or would you prefer to leave it until the morning when you will have slept?’
It would not be clever, Swallow knew, to go straight into an important interrogation directly after a tiring two-day journey. But it might be useful in forming an opinion of his man to see Carmody briefly, perhaps get something of his measure and maybe discomfit him, softening him up for later questioning.
‘I’d be glad to freshen up and rest briefly. Perhaps I might see the prisoner then later in the evening. For perhaps half an hour?’
‘Very well,’ Pfaus nodded. ‘I have to report to my superiors, and I shall meet you at the Hotel Bremen, shall we say at seven o’clock this evening in the lobby, and I will take you to our headquarters. Then afterwards perhaps you would do me the honour of having supper with me and my family at our home. My wife does the best Wiener Schnitzel in Berlin.’
That sounded good, Swallow reckoned.
‘Thank you, Johann; I’ll accept that offer with great pleasure.’
The room on the second floor of the Bremen was small but comfortable, with a high bed on a solid iron frame. But the sheets were fresh linen and the blankets solid, comforting wool. Swallow used the adjacent bathroom with its running water supply to wash the grime of the journey from his body and put on a fresh shirt. He lay down on the narrow bed, closed his eyes and rested until it was time to go downstairs.
Pfaus was on time and waiting in the hotel lobby. He led the way into the street and across two blocks to the main doorway of the Berlin Kriminalpolizei, a featureless grey building that might have housed any government department. It was distinguished only by the presence of a uniformed police officer at the door with a spiked helmet and a heavy rifle on his shoulder.
‘We have a room with a special one-way window that we can use for your questioning tomorrow,’ Pfaus told him as he led the way down steps to the basement and then along a corridor, bright with electrical globes. ‘So if you wish I can monitor your interview without the prisoner’s knowledge. It can be helpful.’
There were perhaps twenty cells along the corridor. Most of the heavy wooden doors, reinforced with steel spars, were ajar. Swallow could see that the cells were surprisingly spacious and adequately furnished, in contrast with the dungeon-like spaces in which prisoners were held at Exchange Court.
‘A quiet night,’ Pfaus said ruefully. ‘Not too many customers, as you can see.’
He stopped outside one of the few closed doors, drew a brass key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock.
‘Your man is in here. I’ll be waiting here until you are finished. Leave the door open and call if you need me.’
He turned the key, pushed the door and gestured Swallow to step inside.
The cell was pleasantly warm. The man sitting at the wooden table reading a newspaper looked older than his twenty-four years, but he seemed relaxed. An empty dinner plate with the bones of what looked like a couple of lamb chops lay on the table. He looked up with surprise when Swallow entered.
‘Michael James Carmody?’ Swallow asked unnecessarily.
The prisoner nodded.
‘I’m Carmody. And who are you? You sound Irish?’
Stepping closer, Swallow could see that the newspaper was the London Daily Sketch. Carmody was clean-shaven apart from a thin moustache and neatly tended side-locks. He seemed well nourished, and was of average height and build. His hair was dark, oiled and perfectly parted. Michael James Carmody presented himself well, Swallow noted silently.
‘You’re right. I’m Swallow. Detective Inspector, G-Division at Dublin Castle.’
Carmody’s eyes widened. He rose slowly from the chair, dropping the newspaper to the table.
‘From Dublin? Are you serious? Did you say your name is Swalla’?’
‘Sure. Don’t doubt me. Do you want to see my warrant card?’
Carmody shook his head. His expression remained fixed in astonishment.
‘No need, mister Swalla’. I’d know a bleedin’ G-man anywhere.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean any offence. But what are you doin’ here? What d’you want wi’ me?’
‘Sit down there.’
Swallow gestured to the bunk at the wall. Carmody moved across the cell as Swallow took the vacant chair.
‘You’re a long way from home, Michael. And you’re in a bit of trouble.’
Carmody attempted a weak grin.
‘Yeah, you might say that, sir. I was gettin’ trouble from wan o’ the chef’s lads at the Hotel Oslo where I was workin’. He wen’ to clock me. So I had to defend meself. It’s what any Irishman would do, isn’t it? It was pure self-defence. That’s God’s truth, sir. But these Germans won’t believe anythin’ I say, and the other lad’s tellin’ lies.’
Swallow nodded gravely.
‘Well, it’s not just that, Michael. The fight at work is one thing. I hear you have a habit of fighting with employees in kitchens. But it seems you weren’t truthful to the police here about your record. You claimed you had no convictions. They checked with us, and we had to tell them what we had in our files. So now you’re in for a long sentence for trying to mislead the police and the courts. It could be ten years before you see daylight.’
Swallow was exaggerating wildly. He hoped that Carmo
dy had no great knowledge of German criminal law.
There was a long silence. The prisoner shifted uneasily on the bunk. He squinted inquisitively at his visitor.
‘I don’t think it’d be that bad, Mr Swalla’. They might put me away for a bit, but ten years? Nah, I doubt that. So, why are you here?’
Swallow smiled. Michael Carmody was no fool and he didn’t frighten easily, even if he was locked up in a foreign police cell.
‘I can tell you that I’m here to investigate certain serious crimes in Dublin. But I think I can help you if you’re smart enough to help yourself. I need you to think back to when you worked in the New Vienna in Dublin.’
Carmody looked up sharply.
‘The New Vienna? The bloody New Vienna? That bastard Werner? What do ye want to know about that place and that bastard?’
‘For a start I want to know about the cash you stole from the office there. More than £50 was taken off the desk when you got his back turned, I believe.’
‘Me? Steal money from Werner? From his office? You can’t be serious. Anyway, there’s no witness to anythin’.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ Swallow bluffed. ‘Maybe someone saw you.’
Carmody’s eyes narrowed. Swallow knew he had him worried.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m not forgetting about the money. But I want to know about Alice Flannery.’
‘What about her?’
‘How well did you know her?’
‘Not very well. She has notions about herself. All high an’ mighty. You know. She wouldn’t want anythin’ to do with the likes o’ me.’
‘You were trying to make her sweet on you, weren’t you?’
Carmody shrugged.
‘She’s a pretty thing. A lad can only try his luck.’
Swallow noted Carmody’s use of the present tense when referring to Alice Flannery. Either he did not realise she was dead, or he was even smarter than he thought. It was impossible to tell.
