The Boy from Berlin

by Michael Parker

  ‘Sister Maria is French?’ he asked.

  The nun nodded. ‘Yes. She is also very old and very deaf.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ he promised and walked over to an armchair. He sat down and picked up a magazine from a side table. He flicked through the pages, not reading but just looking at the pictures until he heard footsteps and the voice of a gentle soul.

  ‘Mr Demski, I am sorry to keep you waiting.’

  Demski quickly closed the magazine and stood up. The woman he saw coming towards him was dressed in white. She was well advanced in years and walked with a stoop.

  She shook his hand. ‘How can I help you?’

  He repeated what he had told the nun sitting at the reception desk, but was careful to speak loudly and clearly.

  ‘We can try,’ she replied. ‘Do you have any identification; something that will confirm your connection with Rosmaleen Demski?’

  It didn’t surprise him that he had been asked. He took his passport from his pocket and handed it over to her. ‘I have this.’

  She opened the passport and looked at the photograph and name. Then she closed it and handed it back. ‘Well, it says you are Jacob Demski, but we do have to be careful, you understand.’ Demski said he did. ‘This way.’ She pointed a finger towards the other side of the entrance hall.

  They walked through the hall to a door that opened into a large square. It was well maintained with shrubs and flowers, and there were benches and chairs scattered around for visitors and patients. There was also a fountain, and the sound of the running water added a wonderful calm to the place.

  Demski could now see that the main building of the sanatorium was in fact a square built around a quadrangle. It still retained its pristine whiteness even though he guessed it was many years old. Sister Maria unlocked a small door at one end of the building, producing the key from an enormous key ring that was hanging beneath her apron.

  It was quite chilly inside the room. She turned the overhead light on revealing two old filing cabinets against one wall. There was a desk in the room on which was a computer and a telephone.

  ‘Modern accoutrements,’ she told Demski, pointing at the computer. ‘But I can’t use them. Too old,’ she added with wry humour. ‘Now, when did you say your grandmother arrived at the sanatorium?’

  He watched her walk over to the filing cabinets. ‘I believe it was about April, 1945.’

  Once again she fished beneath her apron and pulled out the set of keys she carried there and opened one of the filing cabinets. Pulling out a box file, she opened it and began thumbing through the ledgers inside. With a little cry of triumph, she pulled out one of the ledgers and laid it on top of the files. She opened the book and tossed the pages until she came to the page she was looking for.

  Demski watched as she ran her finger down the page and then stopped. There was a discernible change in her demeanour as she read the entry. As small and as frail as she looked, Sister Maria seemed to shrink inside her habit. Demski thought for a moment she was going to collapse, but then she regained some measure of control and closed the book. After a while, she turned and looked over at him. There was a definite change in her manner; a sadness almost.

  ‘The record shows that a Rosmaleen Demski came to the sanatorium in May, 1945.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that she died in childbirth. It was in October of that year.’ She shook her head. ‘I am so sorry.’

  For a moment, Demski was stunned. It really was as though he had uncovered a terrible tragedy in his life. Although he knew his grandmother had died in the bunker, this small piece of information had its own kind of tragedy. He recovered his composure quickly enough to look a little sad.

  ‘That is terrible,’ he muttered, then sighed. ‘That’s it, then; I suppose that’s the end of my search.’

  Sister Maria was shaking her head. ‘It’s life. In the midst of it we are in death.’ She put the ledger back into the filing cabinet and closed the drawer. ‘I expect you would like to visit your grandmother’s grave?’

  It caught Demski off guard for a moment. ‘Well, of course. Pay my last respects, naturally. Is she buried here?’

  She pointed somewhere beyond the small window. ‘We have a small cemetery at the top of the hill. We sometimes have need of it, particularly when one of our patients passes on and there are no relatives. It’s the least we can do,’ she added.

  ‘Can I go up there now?’ Demski wasn’t really the least bit interested in visiting the grave, but he thought it would look better for the sake of appearances if he made some effort.

  ‘Of course. I’m afraid I can’t come with you, but if you go out of the rear door of the sanatorium, you’ll find some steps that lead up to a small road. Just follow that.’

  Demski thanked her as profusely as he thought fitting and made his way up the small road to the cemetery. The road was lined with tall cypress trees, which added an unusual solemnity to the short walk.

  At the gates a small plaque declared that the cemetery was only open during the hours of daylight. Demski shrugged and walked through into an area that was well tended. Small shrubs edged the tarmac roadway that meandered around the perimeter, forming a loop that came back to the gates.

  He began checking the lines of headstones when he heard someone call out.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He turned in the direction of the voice and saw an old man with an armful of dead flowers and twigs standing beside a rubbish bin. He smiled and put up a hand in acknowledgement. ‘I’m looking for my grandmother’s grave,’ he called back.

  The old man dropped the waste into the bin and walked over to him. He walked with a limp and leaned forward with the gait so common in old people.

  ‘What was her name?’ he asked as he came up beside Demski.

  ‘Rosmaleen Demski.’

  The old boy squeezed his lips together and half closed his eyes as he tried to recall the name. Then he lifted his hand and pointed a gnarled, crooked finger at Demski.

  ‘Strange thing.’ It was all he said as he turned and walked away. Demski followed until the old man stopped beside a grave. ‘I wondered when someone might come.’

  Demski thought it odd that the old man should say something like that. Then he noticed the writing etched into the headstone. E.B. and child. 1945.

  ‘Wrong grave,’ he told him. ‘My grandmother’s initials are R.D.’

  The old boy stared at him through watery eyes and shook his head. ‘I was a young man when I came to work here. Dug most of these graves,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘Dug this one. Weren’t no money then, so no headstone. Poor woman had nothing except a dead infant.’ He shook his head sadly and pulled a screwed up handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘It was like that for a long time. Used to be a young fellow, German lad, would come here couple of times a year and tidy the grave up. Not that it needed tidying. He’d put some flowers on it. Then he would give me a few Swiss francs for more flowers and go away for a while. Never said much.’ The old man stopped and looked at Demski quite suddenly. ‘One of yours, maybe?’ When he saw Demski shake his head, he carried on.

  ‘Then about five years after we buried the poor woman, a stranger came. Tall man. He came with the young chap. He had a wife now; the young chap, not the stranger. He paid for a headstone. Said we should put E.B. and child on it. I told him it wasn’t this E.B. woman, but he wouldn’t listen; insisted we did as he bid.’ He straightened up and turned towards Demski. ‘So there’s your reason why.’

  ‘Who was the tall man?’

  The old boy shook his head. ‘The young man always called him Heinrich, same name as me, but he was much older than the young man.’ He coughed and blew his nose into his handkerchief. ‘I’ve got to go now. I can’t tell you any more, but if you need any more help, don’t be afraid to ask.’

  Demski said he would and watched the old boy wander away to the gates of the cemetery. He found it hard to believe what he was th
inking, but it looked as though Eva Braun had given birth to a child here at the sanatorium. It was almost certainly stillborn, but there was no way to prove this had happened. No way at all. The whole thing was preposterous, he decided. The world would laugh at such a suggestion. But the irony was that somewhere out there were people who were prepared to murder to keep this secret.

  And Demski wanted to know why.

  TEN

  LIEUTENANT AMOS STUDIED the wreckage of Bill Mason’s old Buick. The car was a total write-off. They found Mason’s body about fifty yards away. Amos turned his head and shoulders, looking back up at the point in the road, about twenty feet above the gully in which he was now standing, and imagined the car roaring over the edge and cartwheeling towards its final resting place. If Mason had not been thrown out of the car, he would have been crushed by the impact. Not that it mattered; he was dead anyway.

  He looked back at the Buick and began a slow walk around the twisted metal. The forensics team had already been there and cordoned the area off, but Amos was wearing his one-piece, sterile bunny suit so was able to get quite close. He had with him Sergeant Phil Moyes, the local sergeant from Hutton who had put a call through to Amos’s desk.

  ‘He liked a drink, Amos.’

  Amos grunted. ‘Had he been drinking?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, but he was at Mort Tyler’s place night before last. Big party there.’

  Amos grunted again. They all knew about General Tyler’s penchant for a gathering of like-minded Republicans.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’d put money on it,’ Moyes told him.

  Amos scratched his head and continued walking round the wreckage. He stopped when he got to the rear end. It was well damaged and covered in huge scratches and dents, plus a mixture of dirt and grass stains where it had bounced along the ground. Pretty much like the rest of the body.

  He noticed something on what was left of the rear bumper and leaned forward for a closer look. He straightened and turned to Moyes.

  ‘He was pretty fond of his old Buick, right?’

  Moyes nodded. ‘They were joined at the hip. Always kept it immaculate.’

  Amos bent forward and studied a small section of the bumper again. He could see a red smear on the coachwork. But the Buick was red too. He couldn’t be sure if it was part of the primer or undercoat that had been brought to the surface as a result of the battering the car had taken.

  ‘When do you plan to take the car away?’

  ‘Soon as forensics have finished with it. We’ll take it down to the pound.’

  Amos noticed something else; something that did not look like crash damage. He puffed his cheeks out as he straightened up.

  ‘Did Mason always take his car to the same garage?’

  Moyes nodded. ‘Sure did. Wouldn’t have anybody but Old Tom touch it.’

  Amos brightened. ‘Really?’ He gave this some thought. ‘Where would I find Old Tom?’

  ‘Old Tom’s Panel Shop. It’s in Hutton.’ He gave Amos a curious stare. ‘Why, what’s on your mind?’

  Amos shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s just a thought. I want to know a little more about Bill Mason; how much he cared for his car.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’d like another look at this when you get it into the pound,’ he told Moyes before the sergeant could ask any more questions. ‘Probably call in tomorrow.’

  He turned round and ducked underneath the police tape, then peeled off his paper suit, throwing it into a bin provided. He then clambered up the slope, using a rope that had been fixed there by the local firemen and headed towards his car. Next stop for Amos was the town of Hutton and Old Tom’s Panel Shop.

  Amos soon found out that Old Tom was not old at all. In fact he was quite young, about mid thirties and a handsome sort of guy. His name was Jeff Clooney and he had inherited Old Tom’s shop from his grandfather.

  ‘You heard about the crash?’ Amos asked him after the introductions were completed.

  Clooney wiped his hands on a piece of old rag. Amos noticed that he did it habitually.

  ‘Crying shame.’ He shook his head. ‘Lovely old Buick like that.’

  Amos noticed that Clooney seemed to care more about the car than the fact someone had died in the accident.

  ‘Did Mason bring the car here many times?’

  He nodded. ‘Sometimes I think it spent more time in here than it did up at Bill’s place.’

  Amos frowned. ‘Why’s that?’

  Clooney looked around quickly, almost conspiratorially. ‘Well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but he used to scrape it a lot. Everybody knew he liked a drink,’ he said in way of mitigation.

  ‘So he wouldn’t have left any marks on his car for too long?’

  Clooney laughed. ‘I’ve known the old boy to get here before I opened up in the morning because he’d put a scratch on the fender.’

  ‘Good customer then?’

  Clooney nodded boldly. ‘Damn good.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry to lose him then?’

  ‘Darn right I will.’

  Amos put his hand out. ‘Well, thanks Jeff. You’ve been a big help. I may want to talk to you again, would you mind?’

  ‘No problem, Lieutenant. No problem at all.’

  Amos thanked him again and left the garage. He had a picture forming in his mind and that old police instinct of his was kicking in as he climbed into his car and headed back to the 7th Precinct.

  Amos watched the funeral from a distance. It reminded him of some of the mafia funerals he had attended in the past. All the bosses would be there from out of state; men who controlled gambling, prostitution, drugs, the protection rackets. The family members would be the centre of attention. Homilies would be paid, promises made, guarantees assured. How different was this one, he wondered?

  Bill Mason was the father of the man who would almost certainly be the next president of the United States of America, but Mason wasn’t the important one; it was his son, Gus Mason. Looking suitably mournful, but with a disarmingly attractive presence, he looked the perfect partner alongside his beautiful wife, Babs Mason. She carried herself elegantly and managed to look so chic in black. Amos had noticed a small plaster just beneath the rim of her dark glasses. He wondered about that.

  The cemetery had been cordoned off from the general public, but not to the television cameras and national press. This was a big vote catcher for Gus Mason and the party he represented. With the nominations for Republican candidate now whittled down to two people, Gus was winning the support of the waverers without effort. Any undecided votes would now surely swing in his direction.

  Security was tight as well because of the number of high profile people who had gathered to pay their last respects. Police Chief Holder was prominent among them and of course, General Mort Tyler and Judge Lawrence. There were others there from industry, from Wall Street and the local state legislature. But what seemed to stand out to Amos, and probably no one else, was that these people were there, not to mourn Bill Mason, but to be seen with Gus Mason.

  Amos wanted to get close to Babs Mason, not to offer his condolences, but to get a look at that sticking plaster. Not that he could do anything about it, but his senses were on alert and he couldn’t help putting two and two together. He shook his head slowly as she was helped into the limousine by her husband. The line of cars moved out slowly, and soon the presence of some of the most powerful people in America was no longer invading the solemnity of the graveyard.

  Amos walked out to where he had parked his police car and climbed into the driver’s seat. His mind was buzzing with the feeling that there was far more to Bill Mason’s death than was apparent. It had been declared as death by misadventure; a tragic accident. Nothing had been mentioned of the excess of alcohol found in Mason’s blood, which could have been a contributing factor. It looked as though the investigation into the accident had been peremptory and hurried. He thought of the death of Senator Ann Robbins and how her death had be
en accepted as a heart attack.

  He pulled out of the car park and headed off towards Hutton. He wanted to see Clooney at Old Tom’s Panel Shop, and he wanted another look at Bill Mason’s Buick. What was left of it.

  An hour later, Amos was standing in the police pound with Clooney. They were studying the effects of the accident on the Buick. Amos said nothing of the paint marks he had noticed, preferring to wait and see if Clooney would spot the difference too.

  The young mechanic crouched down beside the rear fender and began running his finger over the damaged section. Amos instinctively looked around to see if anybody else was watching. It unsettled him to think that he was getting overly suspicious of any police officer who might be watching, but he had learned to be distrustful about anything to do with the Masons or Judge Lawrence.

  ‘He’s had a scrape here,’ Clooney observed, shaking his head. ‘Wouldn’t have left it like that; he’d have brought it in straightaway.’

  ‘Do you think it’s recent?’

  Clooney looked up at him. ‘It wasn’t there a week ago.’

  Amos suspected that Clooney would have a very close knowledge of Mason’s old Buick. ‘Could you tell what kind of car Mason could have scraped?’

  Clooney squinted in the sunlight and a puzzled look came over his face. ‘What are you up to, Lieutenant?’

  Amos dropped to one knee and leaned in close. ‘Listen, Jeff, there’s a reason I want to know what happened but I can’t explain. I’m not on the case, but it’s important I find out the truth.’

  ‘Why?’

  Amos shook his head quickly. ‘Trust me on this, and don’t, whatever you do, tell anybody that I’ve been nosing around.’

  Clooney jerked his head in the direction of the office. ‘They know you’re here.’

  Amos nodded. ‘I told them I’ve asked you to make an assessment; see if you can rebuild the car.’

  Clooney studied him in silence for a while. Then he took a small, Swiss Army knife from his pocket, opened a blade and dug it deep into the fender. He sliced off a short length of the paint and then put the sliver into his handkerchief. He closed the knife and slipped it back into his pocket.