The Divided City

by Luke McCallin

  “Indeed,” spluttered Neumann. “Please accept my apologies.”

  “No, it’s quite all right,” said Whelan, for the third time. The eternally apologizing Englishman, Reinhardt thought, distantly, as he struggled to push back the weight of Markworth’s eyes. The woman, confused, translated hesitantly, her words falling out into silence.

  Whelan gave his little cough, shifted in his chair. “So we’d like to help you with your inquiries, Chief. Councilor,” he said, his eyes moving between Neumann and Tanneberger.

  “We appreciate that,” said Tanneberger.

  “Very much so,” said Reinhardt. “Perhaps I can start by asking why Carlsen was in the apartment of the other victim. Mr. Noell?”

  “I can give you no clue as to why he was there, but he most probably wasn’t,” said Markworth, firmly, closing the files, glancing at the translator for a moment. He took a sheet of paper from his coat and his eyes hesitated across the Germans, not knowing to whom it should go. He handed it to Bliemeister, eventually. The elderly man, who still had not said a word, handed it silently to Neumann. The chief glanced at it before handing it to Tanneberger, as if he wanted nothing to do with it. “That is a signed statement by one Rosa Gieb, a prostitute, given to our military police, who swears Carlsen was with her on Sunday night, until well past midnight.”

  “What about the blood? In the apartment?” interrupted Reinhardt, then bit his tongue as he realized he had spoken before the translator, and had revealed he had at least some English.

  “A smear of blood is no proof of anything, least of all that it was Carlsen’s. Your Professor Endres only confirms it was the same blood type.” If Markworth had noted Reinhardt’s lapse, he paid it no attention. He had a very different manner to Whelan’s, a kind of blunt efficiency about his speech and movements that cut straight to the point and came clearly through the translator’s words. “Mrs. Gieb stated that when Carlsen left her, he was rather drunk. For Carlsen, that meant not very much. The man could not hold his alcohol. Endres confirms there was some in his system. Gieb claims he got into an altercation with another customer at a bar they had a habit of frequenting, that he was insulting. The last the prostitute saw, Carlsen was arguing with this man.”

  “And you think . . . ?” prompted Reinhardt.

  Markworth moved slightly, his hard-edged hands folding over each other atop the files. “I think, Inspector, that Carlsen got himself into trouble. The kind that leaves you beaten to death on a flight of stairs.”

  “Where was this bar?”

  Markworth named a bar on a street a few blocks away from where Carlsen’s body was found.

  “That’s a bit off the beaten track for an Allied officer,” said Reinhardt.

  “I rather think that was the point, Inspector,” said Whelan, a faint blush to his cheeks.

  “Discretion,” murmured Bliemeister. His first words. Whelan gave him a tight smile of thanks as Neumann’s jaw clenched hard.

  Reinhardt ignored them.

  “How did he get where he was found?”

  “I have no idea, Inspector,” said Markworth, quietly, the translator echoing him quietly. “That would be your job. To find out. Maybe Gieb took Carlsen to a room there, or nearby. Maybe the man followed them.”

  “Any idea who this ‘man’ is?”

  Markworth’s eyes narrowed, as if he heard Reinhardt’s emphasis of the words. “Ask Mrs. Gieb. But judging from what she does and where she does it, what she told me, and what we know of circumstances in this city, we suspect the man was either one of her regulars, or a pimp, or a member of a criminal gang engaged in protection or extortion.”

  “Has she said as much herself?” Reinhardt egged Markworth on, sensing Neumann winding himself up.

  “No. Probably because she is too scared, or too cautious.”

  “So protect her.”

  “That would be your job.”

  “And you feel Mrs. Gieb is familiar with criminal gangs?”

  “She’s a prostitute.”

  “Your point being?”

  “It’s all about tact, gentlemen,” Whelan intervened. “Just a little tact.” He gave a small wince of a smile at the translator, who gave a small wince of a smile back. “Carlsen was a bit of a wild card. The poor chap just needed to work off steam from time to time.”

  “And he was allowed to do it on German women,” Reinhardt interjected, Collingridge snorting out a cloud of smoke.

  “Reinhardt! For the last time,” snapped Neumann, but Ganz’s head came up, and he looked carefully at Reinhardt.

  Whelan’s expression was now distinctly distasteful as he looked at Reinhardt. “We’re rather keen to avoid any embarrassment, you see. Yes, Carlsen had a habit of drinking, and . . . well, yes, he liked the ladies.”

  “He’s talking about fraternization, Reinhardt,” supplied Collingridge, grinning from behind a cloud of smoke.

  “Precisely. Well, yes,” muttered Whelan, another glance at the translator. The eternally embarrassed Englishman, Reinhardt added in his mind. “Allied personnel are not encouraged to fraternize with German women, and Carlsen knew that. Added to which he occupied a sensitive position.”

  “You can say that again,” murmured Collingridge, stubbing out his cigarette.

  Whelan blushed as the American sniggered at his own double entendre. Markworth seemed unmoved, and he had not shifted the weight of his gaze from Reinhardt. “The description of this man offered by the prostitute is, I will admit, somewhat anodyne, but you are free to interrogate the prostitute yourselves. Her name and address are on the statement, as is the address of the bar they were at.”

  “Are you giving us orders?”

  There was a silence around the table, broken finally by Whelan as he leaned forward to speak with Bliemeister and Neumann. “I regret if this appears peremptory, but the British demand the German police’s attention to this case. A British officer has been killed and although we do not suspect it is political, what we do not want is a great deal of publicity. We want efficiency and transparency. Consider it a test of your new credentials as a police force worthy of this new Germany. We will not interfere and will render what assistance we can, but we will require regular reports, and close liaison. Mr. Markworth, here, will be our point of contact, and you are required to keep us informed of any further developments that might cast new light on Carlsen’s death.”

  “The Americans would also appreciate being kept informed,” drawled Collingridge into the sudden silence, sweeping his cigarettes and lighter off the tabletop. “Seeing as these bodies have popped up in our sector, you understand.”

  “That is quite acceptable, of course,” said Bliemeister, but his eyes flickered at Neumann, as if checking or asking permission. Ganz, though, had his eyes fixed on Reinhardt, and what was that in them? Permission? Encouragement . . . ?

  “Why is it acceptable, sir?” asked Reinhardt.

  “What?”

  “Why are the German police doing the Allies’ work for them?”

  “Reinhardt . . .” snapped Tanneberger.

  “Are they going to want to know about Noell’s death as well? I presume not, seeing as Noell and Carlsen never met, according to them.”

  “This Noell’s death is of no particular concern to the British authorities,” said Whelan.

  “Germans should do whatever’s asked of them,” grated Markworth over Neumann’s squawk of protest, “and be thankful they are not living in the Soviet zone.” That coiled energy in Markworth’s voice licked out, just a little, and its touch was caustic. The British rose to their feet, Whelan shrugging his arms into an expensive-looking, fawn-colored gabardine overcoat. “Although, I’ll be honest,” said Markworth, as if only he and Reinhardt were in the room. “There’s some bite in your bark, Inspector. It makes it a pleasure from working with the other spineless wonders that call themselves
men in this city.”

  Bliemeister and Neumann followed them out. At the door, Neumann turned, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes fixed and hard on Tanneberger. “Him,” he said, pointing at Reinhardt. “Sort him out.”

  9

  Tanneberger closed the doors and swung on Reinhardt, his face suffused with his anger.

  “Reinhardt, I swear to God, I will have your badge if you do that again.”

  “Do what?”

  “What? What? Embarrass me like that, you idiot.”

  “That was not my intention, sir.”

  “What were you trying to do, Reinhardt? Convince us you are not an American stooge? Look good in front of Bliemeister? We all know you are Collingridge’s creature.”

  “Sir! I . . .” Reinhardt thought he was inured to this type of accusation, but nevertheless he still seemed to feel its bite as keenly every time.

  “Be quiet, Reinhardt. This is not a conversation. I have had my doubts and suspicions for long enough. I have to put up with you, and that’s bad enough. I don’t have to sit and watch you pretend ignorance about what Collingridge and the Britishers wanted. Well, I’ll have no bloody American stooges in this force.”

  “As opposed to what? Soviet ones?” snapped Reinhardt. Tanneberger’s mouth dropped open and he flushed. “Exactly what are you accusing me of, here?”

  “Of informing the Allies about this investigation. Of bringing them into it.”

  “The Allies heard about it through their own channels. You heard them.”

  “Please, Reinhardt, do not treat me as if I was born yesterday. The last thing we need is a politicized investigation.”

  “And that’s really the last thing you can think of that we need?”

  “Inspector Reinhardt,” Tanneberger spluttered.

  “What now, Reinhardt?” Ganz asked.

  “I intend to pursue my inquiries into Noell’s murder,” Reinhardt answered.

  “What about Carlsen? And that prostitute?”

  “I will, of course, look into that if you feel it necessary, but perhaps you might assign another officer, as we seem to be faced with two separate investigations. That way, there can be no accusations of collusion on my part.”

  He had them there, he realized, watching them glance at each other. Reinhardt wanted this conversation over, wanting at least the chance to get after those British agents.

  “Tanneberger,” Ganz murmured, his eyes fixed on Reinhardt. “I think it would be best for all if Reinhardt was kept off the investigation into Carlsen’s murder. I think he can be relied upon to follow up on the death of Noell instead.”

  “Do you think so?” Tanneberger replied, apparently eager at the way out offered by Ganz.

  “Besides which, I am concerned that if the Carlsen investigation gets rough—which I suspect it will if we have to go digging around in the criminal world—then I will need officers I can rely on fully.”

  “Yes. Reinhardt, you focus on Noell,” agreed Tanneberger.

  “Thank you, sir, and I am awfully sorry if I embarrassed you,” Reinhardt said, standing up and laying it on thick. If he had had his hat with him, he would have twisted it nervously in front of him, he thought. Anything to augment an image of contriteness that Tanneberger would have related to. “I apologize unreservedly. May I be dismissed?”

  Tanneberger’s mouth moved, and he flicked a glance at Ganz.

  “Very well,” Ganz said.

  Reinhardt took the stairs back down as fast as his knee would let him. Back outside, and the street was dotted with people, figures in dark clothes moving left and right, cars, trucks, a horse-drawn wagon, and no sign of the British, no sign of . . . There. Up toward Grunewaldstrasse. That fawn-colored coat across Whelan’s broad back, next to him Collingridge as they walked down the street, the translator a few steps behind, probably heading back to the Kammergericht. Reinhardt kept well back from them, an elderly couple serving as cover while they walked carefully down the splintered pavement, not sure what he was looking for, nor why he was following them. They stopped next to a Jeep parked next to a shiny black car with British plates. Whelan, Collingridge. Two of them. Where was . . . ?

  Reinhardt felt someone watching him, and turned quickly, only spotting Markworth as he stepped out of the shadows of the archway that ran along the front of the Magistrates’ Court. Markworth crossed the road slowly, a deliberate rhythm to his steps, as if he were trying to ignore his limp. It was his left leg, Reinhardt saw, that dragged. The two of them stared at each other, both outwardly calm, but Reinhardt felt that crackling energy from Markworth, almost as if it were something personal.

  “What are you doing?” Markworth asked in English.

  “Why pretend you can’t speak German,” Reinhardt answered back.

  Markworth smiled, a crack across the stone of his face, but said nothing.

  “Do you really believe your own story?” Reinhardt continued.

  “What’s so hard to believe about it?” Markworth answered back.

  “Everything.”

  “Everything?” Markworth repeated. “What would you prefer? That perhaps Carlsen fell victim to some nefarious plot? Disgruntled Nazis? Perhaps the Soviets? Something nice and political perhaps?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just find it hard to believe Carlsen’s and Noell’s deaths are not linked.”

  “No? Ask yourself, then. Are Carlsen’s prints in that apartment? Are they on the glasses? Are they on the tap in the kitchen? On the door handle? Anywhere? Well, are they?”

  “The pathologist is sure the same man killed them.”

  “Or two men trained in the same way.”

  Reinhardt floundered a moment. “It still does not make sense,” he managed, finally. “A prostitute. An assailant in a bar. Carlsen dead in a stairwell.”

  “You did not know Carlsen. I did. He was my friend. He did stupid things.”

  Reinhardt felt he wanted to squirm, feeling the ferocity coiled back inside Markworth that the steady level of his gaze could not hide. “Have you considered that whoever killed Carlsen knew exactly who he was?”

  “How so?”

  “Carlsen’s body had been stripped of all identification. Whoever did it, did it to delay him being identified.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “You’re the one who mentioned criminal gangs. Was he investigating them? Was that his job?”

  “Now who’s the one complicating things? It’s simplicity, isn’t it? Isn’t that what it often boils down to? A man who realizes he’s killed a British official, wouldn’t he panic? Wouldn’t he strip him of his identification?” Markworth’s German was slow, somewhat ponderous, as if he considered each word before pronouncing it.

  “Had Carlsen been reported missing?”

  “What?”

  “How did you find out so quickly about his death? Don’t tell me the US MPs’ photographs moved that fast.”

  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “And even if they did, what are the odds anyone would recognize Carlsen as British? Was anyone looking for him? Had he been reported missing?” Markworth shook his head, frowning. “He was your friend, you said. Were you looking for him?”

  Markworth shook his head, again, moving closer to Reinhardt, the glass chips of his eyes very cold. Reinhardt drew himself in and up, a sudden, reflexive move, as if in the face of sudden danger. “You’re a persistent fucking bull, aren’t you?”

  10

  Then he was gone, a compact man weaving himself into the crowd, leaving Reinhardt behind him on the street, perplexed and wondering, Markworth’s last word in his mind. Bull. Berlin slang for a policeman. Not a word, Reinhardt thought, that a foreigner might pick up easily. And there was something else, maybe something else that Markworth had said, but whatever it was it would not come back to him. Perhaps later, he thought, but what
ever further thoughts Reinhardt might have given the matter, the rhythm Tanneberger and Ganz had begun to demand of the detectives engulfed him.

  The two of them ordered all officers into the briefing room and laid out the situation, ordering Weber out to question the prostitute, and other pairs of detectives and patrolmen to see if anything could be found out about Carlsen’s mystery man and possible attacker, and to generally start to shake things up. There were mug shots posted on the corkboard at one end of the room, blurred and grainy images of men with flat faces and hard eyes. Mug shots of criminals, gangsters, pimps, real and suspected, all men who fit the description given in Mrs. Gieb’s statement, or who were close enough, or who the police would haul in anyway, given half a chance. Reinhardt was surprised to see one or two faces he recognized from before the war, feeling a sudden disconnect from where he was, back to who he had been. And he again wondered why he seemed to find Noell’s death familiar. What was it about it? Where had he heard of something like it . . . ?

  He caught himself from musing overmuch, however, and as Ganz finished reading out the assignments, Reinhardt raised his hand.

  “Yes, Reinhardt?” Tanneberger frowned. Heads twisted round on shoulders to look at him, and more than a few grins were cracked. “You wish to form part of this manhunt, Reinhardt? I thought this was beneath you.”

  “I never said . . .” he began, but Tanneberger interrupted him.

  “You are free to concentrate on following up your leads in the murder of Noell. Report to me regularly, especially should you discover links between the two deaths. However, you will understand if the priorities and resources of this division are focused on Carlsen’s death.”

  In other words, he was on his own, he knew, as the briefing ended and officers and detectives streamed out of the room past him. It was no more than he had asked for from Tanneberger and Ganz, because he wanted to stay focused on Noell and had never had any taste for these roughhouse tactics, the broadsword to his rapier. But to have it rammed down his throat in public was a humiliation he did not need, even though he knew they felt compelled to deliver it. Thankfully, there was a keen edge of excitement in the air, in the crude bursts of speech the men used among themselves, otherwise Reinhardt was sure more fun would have been made of him. It was all somehow depressingly familiar, Reinhardt thought, watching the eager stride of the younger officers.