‘Politics could well be the cause of this young man’s death, Roth. Not to mention our now pressing need to arrest someone before the streets erupt with yet more thuggery.’
‘He’s a Nazi, Trautmann. He hated us as much as the Reds.’
‘If we refused to investigate the deaths of everyone who didn’t like us, we would have precious little to do.’ Trautmann knew he sounded pompous, but he couldn’t seem to stop now.
‘He probably brought it on himself. What if he did beat his girl?’
‘We don’t know that he did. And what of it? Should we add to the cycle of violence by refusing to solve the murders of people we don’t like? This violence is never ending, Roth! An insatiable fire consuming all it touches. And of all people, you should understand that.’
Roth rubbed at his arm stump. ‘That was different.’
‘Was it? This man might have been a monster. But, just maybe, he wasn’t. He deserves our best efforts, regardless. And I think, beneath your hard, socialist bluster, you know that. Or I hope you do.’ Trautmann shifted his gaze to the newspaper clipping and began to read it. ‘Now, this is what you called me over to see?’
It was a story from the Völkischer Beobachter:
TIME FOR THIS JEW LOVER TO GO
We have observed with growing concern the indulgence shown by new Reich Interior Minister von Gaben towards the Judeo-Socialist leadership of the Prussian state government – and of the Berlin police force especially.
But this is going too far!
Offering his “wholehearted support” to Red Grzesinski and his deputy – the so-called ‘doctor’ Weiss – in curtailing the recent “rise in street clashes between paramilitary groups”. The cheek of it! The lunacy!
After all, were it not for the Slav and his slick deputy ‘Isidor’ provoking the honest, angry working men of Berlin with underhand tactics, such clashes would be few and far between. We have written before in these pages how our brownshirts are forced to resist the most wicked taunts and abuse from Reds and Jews – and their police protectors – while on peaceful protest marches.
Why, Isidor has repeatedly proven himself so pompous and aloof from the honest working German that even his own men lack respect for him.
We all know the Reds want nothing more than an excuse to throw our boys in jail – so they can continue their pernicious work. And this support from von Gaben just shows once again how ineffective our current rulers are at dealing with the realities of today’s Germany...
The piece ranted in similar vein for several more paragraphs. It bore a caricature of a stocky man – presumably the minister – grinding brownshirts under his brogues while back-slapping caricatures of Police President Grzesinski and his deputy – Trautmann’s boss – Bernhard Weiss.
Weiss’ small, round Kiplingesque glasses were emphasised, his nose exaggerated into the usual Jewish hook. It made him look like a cross between a mole and the classic Levantine white-slaver of cheap pulp fiction.
The minister’s caricature had a long, sloping forehead and eyes cut to slits above chubby cheeks, thick, negroid lips and a preposterously small waxed moustache.
Trautmann sighed.
‘You think the SA might be marking the minister out for more than just a little name calling?’ Roth said.
‘Seems more of an attack on us than him.’
‘Well...why pick out this particular story and pin it up. That’s all.’ Roth shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing.’
‘No, no, you could have something. We’ll check with his office in the morning, see whether he’s received any threats.’
‘There’s something else, too.’ Roth held up a small envelope. ‘I found some paper scraps in the ashes in the grate. Still just about readable, but we might want to wait till we get back to the Alex. They won’t stand up to too much scrutiny.’
‘Well done, Roth.’ Trautmann patted the shoulder above the missing arm before he’d given himself time to think about it. Having done so he blustered through. Oh, for a fresh pipe, a glass of schnapps, and some madrigals on the phonograph.
Roth got out his notebook and started sketching the room. Trautmann stole another glance at the framed photograph he’d propped on a nearby table.
‘I’d better go and see this landlady Kessler was talking about,’ Trautmann said. ‘Get some more background on the happy couple.’ He picked up the frame with one of the gloves he was still holding. ‘You’ll be all right keeping the Schupo out?’
Roth didn’t look up. ‘They’ll be at Bülowplatz, like I told you.’
Trautmann tucked the frame under his arm and went to find out if the young woman in the photograph could be his killer.
Chapter 3
Kessler was not, in fact, on the rampage in Bülowplatz. He stood on the next landing up, talking to a woman in a green dressing gown whose face was slathered in cold cream. The sergeant took Trautmann by the arm and introduced him to the woman.
‘This is Frau Schneider, the landlady I was telling you about.’
‘Ah, yes of course.’ Trautmann put out a hand. The woman hesitated before taking it. Her eyes were red rimmed, her hair set in wiry black curls shot through with grey.
Trautmann showed her the framed photo. ‘Is this Maria Fleischer?’
Frau Schneider stared dumbly at the photo. Trautmann hustled her into her apartment and sat her on a stool at the kitchen table.
‘Have you any schnapps?’ he asked, shooing Kessler back into the hall and shutting the door before resting the photo on the table.
The woman pointed at a set of shelves crowded with tins and jars. Trautmann rooted around and found a dusty bottle of cooking brandy. He couldn’t find any glasses, so he rinsed out two coffee cups in the sink and brought them to the table. He filled them, pulled out his pipe and lighted it before the woman had a chance to protest.
He took a sip of brandy and winced, puffing on his pipe to take away the harsh taste. He watched Frau Schneider compose herself, using up half the tobacco in his bowl before she’d done so.
‘Maria came up here to see you and she was dripping blood,’ Trautmann said. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘It was that evil bastard Meist. He got what he deserved.’
‘What happened?’
‘They had another fight,’ Frau Schneider said.
‘When was this?’
‘They fought all the time.’
‘I mean tonight, Frau Schneider. There was a fight tonight? Did you hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hear any gunshots?’
‘Gunshots?’ She sounded confused. So she hadn’t heard any. Presumably she didn’t know the cause of death.
‘Did Maria have a gun with her?’
‘No.’
‘Did she have any kind of weapon?’
‘No.’
‘What time did she come up here? Tonight, I mean.’
She gazed into her brandy. ‘I’m... not sure. I told the other officer all this.’
Trautmann put some honey in his tone. ‘I know, Frau Schneider, but I just need to go over it with you once more. Please try to remember. It helps sometimes to tell the story more than once.’
‘What time is it now?’
‘A quarter past one.’
She did some mental arithmetic. ‘Then it was about eleven thirty. Yes, that was it. Thinking about it, I looked at the clock in my room when I heard her knock.’
Trautmann waited for her to go on.
‘I came to the door and when I opened it she was there. Blood all over her. She said she’d had an accident and what should she do?’
‘What kind of an accident?’
The woman kept on as though she hadn’t even heard the question: ‘She often came to me for advice. Never took it though.’ She drank some brandy. ‘I told her a dozen times she should leave that boy, but she wouldn’t. God knows why.’
She reached for the photo and Trautmann nudged it away with his pip
e stem so she wouldn’t obscure any fingerprints. There’d been altogether too much of that.
‘What kind of accident, Frau Schneider?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She didn’t say?’
‘Just that they’d fought...’ She tailed off.
‘What advice did you give her?’
The woman shifted on her stool and wouldn’t meet his eyes.
‘Was it to go and ask her uncle for help?’ He didn’t like leading questions, but he wanted her reaction to that one. She looked up and met his eyes, then she looked away, past him, and then down into her cup.
A lump of cold cream dropped from her chin and splashed into her brandy. Trautmann passed her his cup, glad of the excuse to be rid of it.
‘Was it?’ he said.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you remember where she went?’
‘No.’ Too quick, that time. Another reason to visit Fleischer – the sooner the better.
Trautmann hoped the lab boys from the Alex wouldn’t take much longer to arrive; he and Roth couldn’t leave the scene until they had.
‘What makes you think Meist was beating her?’ Trautmann said.
‘Think!’ Her voice grew louder. ‘Think, nothing. If you had seen the bruises, the scratches... He made her go out and... prostitute herself, you know. Sick. Just because he was too damn lazy to work. They argued about it. All the time.’
‘Did you hear them arguing?’
‘She would come up and see me afterwards. Sometimes.’
‘And she told you what they argued about.’
‘I’d have to be blind not to see it.’
‘Is that why she killed him?’
She got up from her stool. ‘Now look here, bull. If you think you can get me to turn stoolie on Maria you’ve got another thing coming.’
Trautmann held the woman’s gaze. Then the apartment door opened to reveal Roth. The noise of chatter and heavy footfalls entered with him.
‘Sir, lab boys are here.’
Trautmann turned back to the woman. ‘Thank you, Frau Schneider. I’ll give Fleischer your best regards.’
Her eyes widened with panic. He rose and turned his back on her, putting on one of his gloves to pick up the photograph of Maria.
‘Hey, now then...’ she began.
‘Thank you. That will be all.’
‘Hey... don’t you go telling him I sent you, you hear me? You hear me?’
Chapter 4
‘Well, she thinks the girl killed him,’ Trautmann said once he’d made sure the apartment door was shut. ‘Unless she was trying to throw me off.’
‘Sir, I found this.’ Roth held up a wallet. ‘It was under the bed. Don’t get excited though, there’s nothing in it. Nothing with an address, anyway.’
They went down the stairs to the murder apartment, passing a couple of Schupo. ‘Fingerprints?’
Roth shook his head. ‘Lab boys reckon they won’t get anything usable off the leather.’
Trautmann opened the wallet. As Roth had said, there was nothing in there bar a photo of a young boy of three, perhaps four years of age. The photo looked as though it had been cut out of a larger picture.
‘This boy could be a relative of Meist’s, of course,’ Trautmann said.
‘No sir. Meist’s wallet was in the dresser. No money, but his party membership card was in it.’
‘So, then this brings us a step closer to our mystery second man.’
‘Not much.’
‘Now now, Roth. It’s another piece of the jigsaw. It’ll fit somewhere.’
They entered the apartment and gave a verbal report to the lab boys, adding the need to get the landlady fingerprinted.
‘We’ll have time to go through all this later,’ Trautmann said.
‘Why, where are we going?’ Roth asked.
‘Gird your loins, Markus,’ Trautmann replied, in a low voice. ‘We’re paying Fleischer a visit. And quickly too, before Kessler gets there. We’re going to take him into custody.’
Roth looked at Trautmann like the older man had lost his mind.
Chapter 5
Harry the Horse was doing his usual shtick at the entrance to Fleischer’s club, singing ‘A girl or a woman’ from The Magic Flute at the top of his baritone voice with thin falsetto back up from Little Eva, a six-foot tall prostitute rumour had it was really a transvestite.
Roth reached for his police ID.
‘Put it away, Roth,’ Trautmann said, placing five Reichsmark in Harry’s proffered hat.
The Horse nodded them past, ahead of the line of hopeful tourists who’d been waiting. Eva followed the two detectives into the fug of sweat and sweet tobacco smoke inside. It was crowded in there: three deep at the bar and every seat taken at every table. Trautmann’s top lip broke out right away.
‘Hey, you didn’t wait for your champagne,’ Eva said, tugging at Trautmann’s arm.
‘We don’t want any,’ Roth said.
‘But that’s how it works, you know that. Five marks on the door for your champagne.’
‘Besides, it’s not real champagne, is it?’ Trautmann added, watching Eva place a cigarette in her mouth while fluttering the desiccated butterfly corpses that clung to her eyelids in imitation of lashes.
He scanned the place for Fleischer, wondering why Eva was stalling them and what it signified. No sign of the big man himself. He reached for his pipe, feeling the unwelcome weight of the Walther PPK in his jacket pocket.
A band of white musicians in boaters and black face performed on a small raised stage in front of the large plate glass window onto the street. If ‘perform’ was the right word. They were sending forth a racket of kick-drum, high hat and scratchy banjos.
‘What’s that caterwauling?’ Trautmann asked Eva, lighting a match for her with his thumbnail.
‘New this week from England,’ Eva said, holding Trautmann’s hand to steady the match.
‘We get our jazz imports from England now?’
‘You heard of Duke Ellington?’
‘I know the name.’
Eva blew smoke in Trautmann’s face. ‘Well, this bandleader’s a real duke.’
‘You don’t say?’
Roth stepped forward, grabbed Eva’s elbow and propelled her further into the room.
‘Where’s Fleischer?’ he said.
Eva frowned at Trautmann.
‘It’s urgent, Eva,’ he told her, shaking out the match as he put his pipe back in his pocket. He didn’t think he’d get the chance to smoke it after all.
‘He’s not in tonight.’ She pouted.
‘Don’t lie to us,’ Roth said.
‘It’s true.’ Eva yanked her elbow from the young detective’s grip and rubbed at it.
Trautmann leaned close to her ear. ‘He’s going to want to hear what we have to say, so stop slowing us down. You don’t have to take us to him. Just step out of the way.’
She pulled an on-your-own-head-be-it face and then returned to Harry and the waiting crowd outside.
‘We’d better check the back,’ Trautmann told Roth. ‘Either he’s planning on going somewhere or he’s doing some kind of business in there.’
The two detectives shoved their way to Fleischer’s office at the far end of the room. The door opened as they arrived and Fleischer walked right into them, jacket in hand. His face bore the scars of childhood pox and his hair, thinning on top, tufted over his ears.
‘Can’t stop, gents,’ he said. He looked to be heading for the back exit.
Trautmann held his ground.
‘Can’t let you go, Fleischer,’ he said.
‘Can’t let you stop me,’ Fleischer said.
‘Off to see your niece, are you?’ Trautmann said. ‘Mind if we tag along?’ Roth stood at his shoulder in support.
‘And why would I be going to see my niece?’ the big man said.
A couple of drunks in evening dress pushed past, on their way back from the washrooms. Trautmann ke
pt his eyes on Fleischer until the drunks were out of earshot.
‘She came here a little while ago,’ Trautmann said. ‘Say about two, two-and-a-half hours. Likely covered in blood.’
Fleischer didn’t move.
‘Perhaps you know where she is,’ Trautmann added.
One of Fleischer’s eyelids flickered.
‘You want to tell us? Before she gets into any trouble?’ Roth said.
‘After all, it’s not as though you’re going to get the chance to warn her,’ Trautmann said.
Fleischer raised a questioning eyebrow at that. He turned and opened the door to his office, showing the butt of a pistol jammed between his belt and the small of his back.
‘Let’s talk,’ he said, gesturing for the detectives to enter.
‘You go first, if you don’t mind,’ Trautmann said. He didn’t fancy Fleischer locking them in and getting away.
So Fleischer led them into the office and tossed his jacket at a nearby wall hook. He took a seat behind his desk, turning on a green shaded desk lamp and selecting a cigarette from an open box etched with pre-war Turkish script. He lighted it, leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling, affecting ease.
‘Tell me what you know,’ he said. ‘Maybe I can help.’ He hadn’t invited them to sit.
Trautmann plumped for a light-hearted opening. ‘What’s that ukulele rubbish you’ve got playing out there?’
Fleischer shrugged in his small pool of lamp light. ‘The vagaries of fashion, Trautmann, what can I say. Anyway,’ a note of pride entered his voice, ‘it’s banjos, not ukuleles.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Damned if I know. Now, do you want to get to the fucking point? I’m not of a mind to be receiving guests just now.’
‘Swearing, Fleischer?’ Trautmann said. ‘That’s not like you. Feeling tense?’
‘Are you playing with me, Trautmann? You know I don’t appreciate that kind of treatment, least of all here in my own place.’
‘Tell me about Maria.’
‘Tell you what about Maria?’
‘Her boyfriend was killed two hours ago, give or take. What did you know about him?’
Berlin Burning Page 2
