Charity

by Len Deighton

  Frank seemed to enjoy his improvised role of master of ceremonies. He looked around, beaming at the upturned faces, for by now he was the centre of attention. He continued talking. Frank was good at after-dinner speeches, and now he used fragments from ones I’d heard many times before. It was all delivered in Frank Harrington’s version of German. You couldn’t exactly fault the syntax, but his old-fashioned German had the flavour of years long past. If there was anything that could persuade the guests present that they had really witnessed a charade, rather than a shooting, it was Frank doing his spiel in his weird Kaiserliche German. Then someone propelled Zena forward, and Frank told everyone how lovely the hostess looked and Zena smiled with grim satisfaction and everyone applauded. Some of those present knew of Frank’s affair with Zena, and I had the impression that most of the jocular cheering came from them.

  By the time Frank had finished his eulogy there was no sign of poor Werner or Cindy or the injured military policeman. The band were playing louder and faster than they had ever played before; the waiters were pouring larger measures than before, both activities probably done at Frank’s instigation. The guests were dancing and laughing and flirting. Only the broken section of moulding was there to prove that the evening’s ‘most original entertainment’ had ever taken place.

  They didn’t let me see Werner until past one o’clock in the morning. He was in the Steglitz Clinic, in the hospital of the Free University. It was dimly lit and silent and there was that unmistakable smell of anaesthetics, antiseptics and disinfectant that mingles and hangs on the air in all such medical establishments. By that time, I was the only one in the waiting-room. Frank had squeezed an optimistic prognosis out of one of the senior medical staff, and then taken Zena back to her home before going to the office to phone Bret and other people who would expect to be kept informed. Frank would be blamed for this silly fiasco. It was not his fault, but that was how the system worked. It could even hasten Frank’s retirement.

  I waited. The surgeon finished his needlework and finally took pity on me because I had been there so long. He came out and gave me a detailed account of the surgical job he’d done on Werner’s skull. Bad concussion, extensive cuts, but probably no fractures. Head-scan in the morning: then he would have more to go on. The surgeon had the sort of unmistakable Berlin accent with which Bavarian comics get laughs in Munich nightclubs. Hearing his accent I responded using the soft gees and clickety voice I had acquired as a streetwise Berlin schoolboy. He responded with a more pronounced accent as he told me that Werner’s upper body was badly bruised and that he had damaged his ankle too. Perhaps a tiny fracture there. After another exchange of ever-broadening dialect he smiled and said: ‘Five minutes; no more. He’s a lucky man to be alive.’

  Werner was sitting up in bed. He’d had a local anaesthetic while they stitched up the furrow that the bullet had torn above his ear. Now that they had cleaned away all the blood from his hands and head, he looked much better than I had dared hope when I saw him at the bottom of the staircase. But his face was seriously bruised and beginning to swell. According to the doctor it would be some time before he was allowed out of bed. They had shaved the hair from the side of his head to get to the wound. Half bald, he had his stitches covered with no more than a small rectangular dressing, secured by strips of pink tape.

  ‘You had me worried, Werner,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know whether to bring the girlie mags or a wreath.’

  ‘When I go, it’s not going to be from a handbag gun.’

  ‘Don’t be macho, Werner.’

  ‘What happened to Cindy Prettyman?’

  ‘She’s here in the Clinic. Asleep. One of the soldiers gave her a hefty sedative in the ambulance and forgot to write it down for the hospital reception. The doctor who examined her gave her another dose. She’s well away. The doctor says she won’t be fit enough to question until late tomorrow. Maybe the day after.’

  ‘I blame myself,’ said Werner.

  ‘You couldn’t have known she was going to run amok like that.’

  ‘She thought you and Jim Prettyman had organized the robbery in her office. She thought you had the box file.’

  ‘No, I don’t have the box file,’ I said. ‘Jim Prettyman must have organized it. He played it very cool but it was his box. I shouldn’t have told him she had it in her office. My fault. He must have got on the phone right after I left him. Jim knows where to find hoodlums and thieves. Seems like it’s his speciality.’

  ‘Jim has it?’

  ‘I’m sure he does. But I can’t help wondering if it was official. I wonder if he talked to someone in London about it. It’s an official box and the Department must have an interest in it.’ I looked at Werner quizzically. It took a long time for him to respond.

  ‘I went to Brussels. I stole the box file from her safe.’

  I smiled blankly.

  ‘Did you guess?’

  ‘It took time. But when Cindy started shooting I could see what had really happened. And you were the one who knew where Cindy was all the time. You knew that while she was in Berlin she would not be in her office. And you had a perfect opportunity to take an impression from her keys.’

  He gave a grim smile. We knew each other too well. ‘Why lead me on about Jim Prettyman stealing it?’

  ‘I wanted to see how good you are at telling lies.’

  ‘What do you mean, you could see it when she started shooting?’

  ‘Cindy was on the stairs. At that point maybe she thought it was Jim Prettyman who did it. Then she saw you and me together on the stairs in front of her. She had told me that the file was in her office safe. You’d been away from Berlin for a day. She figured that I had told you to go and steal the box.’

  ‘She intended to shoot me?’ said Werner, frowning as he tried to decide whether he preferred the role of injured innocent bystander or target. He touched his head with a fingertip. I suppose the frowning had caused him pain; or maybe it was the thinking.

  ‘She aimed that shot at you. Sure she did,’ I said cheerfully. ‘That’s why I am still in one piece and you have a hole in your skull. She was going to plug me. But then all her anger was redirected . . at you. You’d actually invaded her office and stolen her nest-egg. It was personal.’

  ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘If it was left to Frank she’d be locked away for ever.’

  ‘I know. He hates her,’ said Werner and nodded.

  ‘That is something of an understatement. Frank regards the shooting fracas as a personal affront. But you know how Frank works. He won’t let her be charged with attempted murder, or common assault or party-pooping. He’ll pull strings in Brussels and try and get her fired. Frank feels he was humiliated by it happening while Bret was here in the city.’

  ‘They won’t get away as easily as that. Those people who were there last night will work out what really happened.’

  ‘Maybe. But it will take time. And news editors spike timeworn stories.’

  ‘Is that redcap in one piece?’

  ‘He won’t be going back to the gymnastics team. A bad compound fracture of the ribs, and mild concussion. He’ll be all right. They will fly him home tomorrow. The surgeon thinks it will be a straightforward job. Military policemen are all bone.’

  ‘And Cindy Prettyman too?’

  ‘Drunks bounce like rubber balls, Werner. She was lucky. For security reasons none of those redcaps had been told who they were guarding. They were just told that there was a political VIP in the car Bret was using. They figured that any kind of shooting was likely to be an attempt on the life of the man they were guarding. If that cop’s flying tackle had not done the trick, there was a sniper lining her up, and about to shoot Mrs Prettyman dead.’

  The door opened and the surgeon came in and said I mustn’t make his patient tired. He was taking a personal interest in Werner’s well-being. I wondered what Frank must have told him.

  ‘They wouldn’t let Zena in to see me,’ said Werner as
I was putting on my overcoat.

  ‘Yes, well, Zena doesn’t speak Berlin German as well as I do,’ I said in my heaviest possible accent.

  The doctor nodded. I think he was beginning to think he was the butt of my humour instead of a part of it.

  ‘You haven’t asked me if I got the box open,’ said Werner as I moved to the door. ‘You don’t know what might be inside it.’

  ‘Don’t try opening it, Werner. I know what’s inside it, believe me.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘That would spoil the fun,’ I said.

  ‘What fun?’

  ‘The fun of seeing if what you hand over to Bret fits my guess.’

  Werner looked at me and said: ‘It is the same box file. I haven’t substituted it for another. Take the keys of my desk. It’s in the office; in my big filing cabinet.’

  ‘Let it stay there,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened … and tearing you away from the party,’ said Werner. ‘I know you wanted to take Gloria back to her hotel.’

  ‘She had Bret and Mohnspielen,’ I said. ‘You can’t have everything.’

  ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ said Werner. I only wish I could always see into Werner’s head with the ease with which he sees into mine. ‘You and Gloria: it’s all over.’

  ‘Try to get some sleep, Werner,’ I said. ‘That crack on the head is making your brains rattle.’

  It was very late by the time I got back to the hotel but Lisl was still awake. She was sitting up in bed in a frilly jacket, reading newspapers and playing her old records. She seemed to like sleeping in the downstairs room to which she had moved. It not only saved her going up all those stairs to bed, it was a way of being at the centre of everything, of all the hotel’s comings and goings.

  Even while I was coming through the main door I heard the immortal Marlene singing: Das war in Schöneberg. Lisl’s new record-player had revived all her nostalgia and enthusiasm for the music she grew up with. Werner had bought the player for her; it was becoming too difficult for her to wind up by hand the ancient machine she preferred. He had searched everywhere before finding an electric machine that would play her scratchy old ‘seventy-eights’. I went in to her room to say goodnight. No matter how much her hearing deteriorated, she was always able to hear me tiptoeing past her door should I attempt to go upstairs without paying my respects.

  ‘Was it a good party, Liebchen?’

  ‘They missed you, Lisl. Everyone was asking where you were.’

  ‘You tell lies not so well, my darling. Perhaps it’s better you stick to the truth. Give your poor old Tante Lisl a proper kiss, not one of those English pecks.’ She puckered her mouth and closed her eyes like a child.

  ‘A big band and dancing and real German food,’ I said as I took her bony shoulders in my hands and bent low to give her a kiss. ‘But without you it was nothing.’

  ‘I let him borrow Richard, my clever young cook.’

  ‘That was very kind, Tante Lisl,’ I said. ‘Everyone was talking about the food.’

  ‘Zena wasn’t sure about it,’ said Lisl. ‘She wanted to get prepared dishes from Ka-De-We. But lovely food costs lovely money. Werner should be more careful with his money.’ She looked at the time. ‘Did it go on so late?’

  ‘Werner tripped on the stair carpet,’ I told her. ‘They had to take him for tests.’

  ‘Oh, my God. The times I’ve told him not to drink. When you are the host, Werner, keep a clear head. I’ve told him that over and over again.’

  ‘Calm down, Lisl. He wasn’t drunk. You know Werner; he never drinks. Almost never. He stumbled on the stairs. He twisted his ankle. It’s nothing, but Zena wanted to play safe so she made him go for an X-ray. He’s in the Steglitz Clinic overnight. That’s all.’ I thought I should mention Werner’s condition rather than risk her hearing it from elsewhere.

  ‘The Steglitz Clinic? I must go. Get my dressing-gown from the door, there’s a darling.’ She twisted in bed so that she could inspect her face in the mirror, and decide if her make-up was suited to a visit to the hospital in the middle of the night.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ I said. ‘They gave him pain-killers and something to make him sleep. You wouldn’t be able to see him. Anyway, it’s nothing.’

  ‘If it’s nothing will he still be coming for coffee and Kipferl tomorrow?’

  I didn’t know Werner had promised to visit the next day. I tried to think of a reason he wouldn’t be here.

  She said: ‘Nit kain entfer iz oich an entfer.’ The Yiddish proverb – No answer is also an answer.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be here tomorrow,’ I said without much conviction.

  ‘I can always detect when you tell me lies, Liebchen. It’s something I can see in your eyes. Your Lisl can always tell. Why didn’t the foolish boy phone me? When it happened: why didn’t you phone me?’

  ‘He’s all right, Lisl. It’s just a little sprain. Zena makes too much of a fuss about Werner. She worries about him too much.’

  ‘He should have phoned,’ Lisl said petulantly.

  ‘He made me promise that I would tell you as soon as I got back here.’

  ‘Even one little drink can be too much. And Werner can’t drink; he knows that.’

  ‘I must go to bed, Lisl. Goodnight. See you at breakfast.’

  ‘Yes, I know it must be boring for you to be talking to an ugly old woman.’

  ‘You are a darling,’ I said. I gave her another kiss and started to make my escape.

  Lisl looked at me. ‘Very well, then. I shall phone the hospital first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Goodnight, Lisl.’

  ‘Oh, I’m forgetting, Bernd darling. There is a fax message for you. The telephone went during dinner. The girl was serving some people who came late so it was difficult for her. The people calling spoke no German. I had my friend Lothar take the call, and deal with them. He speaks the most beautiful English. We were playing cards here. Was that all right?’

  ‘How is Lothar?’

  ‘Not so wonderful, darling. He has had to stop smoking.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ I said. But since Lothar Koch was about two hundred years old, a prohibition on smoking seemed a minor restriction and long overdue.

  ‘He gave the foreign lady the fax number here. I know you have told me never to give that number as a way to reach you, but Lothar said this was an emergency.’

  I took the printed message slip from her. As was to be expected of a man who had loyally served in the Nazi Party’s Interior Ministry, Lothar Koch had neatly entered the date and time and his initials on the covering sheet and written ‘Herrn Bernd Samson’ in the appropriate place. ‘Dear Herr Samson, the attached fax was sent to you this evening at 21.30 hours. Your caller said it was an emergency. I hope this is in accord with your wishes.’

  The fax consisted of one sheet. It was from Mrs Prettyman, and handwritten in a good firm hand with big looping school-book letters that were characteristically American.

  Dear Bernard,

  I have to tell you the terrible news that my darling Jay died yesterday morning. The doctor and the priest were both with him. It was a peaceful end to his pain, and in some ways for the better. He so enjoyed your visit with us. I think it made him recall happy times you had spent together. He wanted to see you again very much. I told him you were coming back to see him and he died with that thought. He made me promise that I would send this message to you without delay. He wanted me to tell you that you were right in what you said. You guessed what happened. He was all alone that night in Germany. He did everything as you described: there was no one else with him. I hope you understand this message. I have written it exactly as Jay asked.

  Would you also please pass news of his condition to any of his friends or relatives with whom you are in touch.

  Yours truly,

  Tabby Prettyman

  I read it through twice. ‘Thanks Lisl.’ Until now I had felt certain that Prettyman had killed Thurkettl
e. But this death-bed confession to it jarred me. It made me wonder if this was Prettyman’s final gesture of earthly compassion: pleading guilty to a killing he hadn’t committed.

  ‘A friend has died?’ Lisl was rummaging through her precious collection of records, her fingers flicking against the corners of the dog-eared paper sleeves. Finally she found what she was looking for. She looked up at me. ‘Is it someone I know?’

  I had no doubt that together with Herr Koch she had given the fax message her earnest scrutiny.

  ‘Yes, a death. He was very ill. No, it was no one you know.’

  ‘Was he very religious?’

  ‘As religious as only a repentant sinner can be,’ I said. She nodded sagely. I held her tight and kissed her again. I loved her very much. I said goodnight. As I went upstairs, Marlene began singing Durch Berlin fliesst immer noch die Spree. All those unforgettable Berlin cabaret songs had an underlying melancholy. I wondered if that’s what Berliners liked about them.

  12

  The SIS residence, Berlin

  ‘This is not going to become an inquest,’ said Bret, standing at the end of the dining-table in Frank Harrington’s residence. Bret rested his fingers lightly upon its polished surface, so that the reflections looked like big pink spiders. Behind me I heard Frank Harrington give a deep sigh. Werner, across the table from me, shrank a few inches into his collar. He looked like hell. The clinic should never have released him. The others also looked glum. We all suspected that an inquest was exactly what Bret intended that it should become. ‘It’s not official, and nothing anyone says will be on the record.’ Bret smiled grimly. He had his jacket hanging on the back of his chair and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. Experience had taught me that such dishabille was a bad sign: a warning that Bret was restless and belligerent. As he looked round at us all he added: ‘Or even remembered. You’ll notice that this is a need-to-know gathering.’