Berlin Noir, page 66
‘“Captain John Belinsky”,’ I read. ‘“430th United States CIC”. What’s that? Are you one of Mr Shields’s friends?’
The man sat up slowly. ‘Fuck you, kraut,’ he said biliously.
‘Have you orders to follow me?’ I tossed the card on to his lap and searched the other compartments of his wallet. ‘Because you’d better ask for another assignment, Johnny. You’re not very good at this sort of thing – I’ve seen less conspicuous striptease dancers than you.’ There wasn’t much of interest in his wallet: some dollar scrip, a few Austrian schillings, a ticket for the Yank Movie Theatre, some stamps, a room card from Sacher’s Hotel and a photograph of a pretty girl.
‘Have you finished with that?’ he said in German.
I tossed him the wallet.
‘That’s a nice-looking girl you have there, Johnny,’ I said. ‘Did you follow her as well? Maybe I should give you my snapshot. Write my address on the back. Make it easier for you.’
‘Fuck you, kraut.’
‘Johnny,’ I said, starting back up the steps to Mariahilferstrasse, ‘I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.’
15
Pichler lay under a massive piece of stone like some primitive car mechanic repairing a neolithic stone-axle, with the tools of his trade – a hammer and a chisel – held tight in his dusty, blood-stained hands. It was almost as if while carving the black rock’s inscription he had paused for a moment to draw breath and decipher the words that seemed to emerge vertically from his chest. But no mason ever worked in such a position, at right angles to his legend. And draw breath he never would again, for although the human chest is sufficiently strong a cage for those soft, mobile pets that are the heart and lungs, it is easily crushed by something as heavy as half a tonne of polished marble.
It looked like an accident, but there was one way to be sure. Leaving Pichler in the yard where I had found him, I went into the office.
I retained very little memory of the dead man’s description of his business-accounting system. To me, the niceties of double-entry bookkeeping are about as useful as a pair of brogue galoshes. But as someone who ran a business himself, albeit a small one, I had a rudimentary knowledge of the petty, fastidious way in which the details of one ledger are supposed to correspond with those in another. And it didn’t take William Randolph Hearst to see that Pilcher’s books had been altered, not by any subtle accounting, but by the simple expedient of tearing out a couple of pages. There was only one financial analysis that was worth a spit, and that was that Pichler’s death had been anything but accidental.
Wondering whether his murderer had thought to steal the sketch-design for Dr Max Abs’ headstone, as well as the relevant pages from the ledgers, I went back into the yard to see if I might be able to find it. I had a good look round, and after a few minutes discovered a number of dusty art-files propped up against a wall in the workshop at the back of the yard. I untied the first file and started to sort through the draughtsman’s drawings, working quickly since I had no wish to be found searching the premises of a man who lay crushed to death less than ten metres away. And when at last I found the drawing I was looking for I gave it no more than a cursory glance before folding it up and slipping it into my coat pocket.
I caught a 71 back to town and went to the Cafe Schwarzenberg, close to the tram terminus on the Kartner Ring. I ordered a mélange and then spread the drawing out on the table in front of me. It was about the size of a double-page spread in a newspaper, with the customer’s name – Max Abs – clearly marked on an order copy stapled to the top right-hand corner of the paper.
The mark-up for the inscription read: ‘SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MARTIN ALBERS, BORN 1899, MARTYRED 9 APRIL 1945. BELOVED OF WIFE LENI, AND SONS MANFRED AND ROLF. BEHOLD, I SHEW YOU A MYSTERY; WE SHALL NOT ALL SLEEP, BUT WE SHALL ALL BE CHANGED, IN A MOMENT, IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE, AT THE LAST TRUMP: FOR THE TRUMPET SHALL SOUND, AND THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED INCORRUPTIBLE, AND WE SHALL BE CHANGED. I CORINTHIANS 15: 51-52.’
On Max Abs’ order was written his address, but beyond the fact that the doctor had paid for a headstone in the name of a man who was dead – a brother-in-law perhaps? – and which had now occasioned the murder of the man who had carved it, I could not see that I had learned very much.
The waiter, wearing his grey frizzy hair on the back of his balding head like a halo, returning with the small tin tray that carried my melange and the glass of water customarily served with coffee in Viennese cafés. He glanced down at the drawing before I folded it away to make room for the tray, and said, with a sympathetic sort of smile: ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’
I thanked him for his kind thought and, tipping him generously, asked him first from where I might send a telegram, and then where Berggasse was.
‘The Central Telegraph Office is on Börseplatz,’ he answered, ‘on the Schottenring. You’ll find Berggasse just a couple of blocks north of there.’
An hour or so later, after sending my telegrams to Kirsten and to Neumann, I walked up to Berggasse, which ran between the police prison where Becker was locked up and the hospital where his girlfriend worked. This coincidence was more remarkable than the street itself, which seemed largely to be occupied by doctors and dentists. Nor did I think it particularly remarkable to discover from the old woman who owned the building in which Abs had occupied the mezzanine floor that only a few hours earlier he had told her he was leaving Vienna for good.
‘He said his job urgently required him to go to Munich,’ she explained in the kind of tone that left me feeling she was still a bit puzzled by this sudden departure. ‘Or at least somewhere near Munich. He mentioned the name but I’m afraid that I’ve forgotten it.’
‘It wasn’t Pullach, was it?’
She tried to look thoughtful but only succeeded in looking bad-tempered. ‘I don’t know if it was or if it wasn’t,’ she said finally. The cloud lifted from her face as she returned to her normal bovine expression. ‘Anyway, he said he would let me know where he was when he got himself settled.’
‘Did he take all his things with him?’
‘There wasn’t much to take,’ she said. ‘Just a couple of suitcases. The apartment is furnished, you see.’ She frowned again. ‘Are you a policeman or something?’
‘No, I was wondering about his rooms.’
‘Well why didn’t you say? Come in, Herr – ?’
‘It’s Professor, actually,’ I said with what I thought sounded like a typically Viennese punctiliousness. ‘Professor Kurtz.’ There was also the possibility that by giving myself the academic handle I might appeal to the snob in the woman. ‘Dr Abs and myself are mutually acquainted with a Herr König, who told me that he thought the Herr Doktor might be about to vacate some excellent rooms at this address.’
I followed the old woman through the door and into the big hallway which led to a tall glass door. Beyond the open door lay a courtyard with a solitary plane tree growing there. We turned up the wrought-iron staircase.
‘I trust you will forgive my discretion,’ I said. ‘Only I wasn’t sure how much credence to place on my friend’s information. He was most insistent that they were excellent rooms, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, madam, how difficult it can be for a gentleman to find an apartment of any quality in Vienna these days. Perhaps you know Herr König?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t think I ever met any of Dr Abs’ friends. He was a very quiet man. But your friend is well informed. You won’t find a better set of rooms for 400 schillings a month. This is a very good neighbourhood.’ At the door to the apartment she lowered her voice. ‘And entirely Jew-free.’ She produced a key from the pocket of her jacket and slipped it into the keyhole of the great mahogany door. ‘Of course, we had a few of them here before the Anschluss. Even in this house. But by the time the war came most of them had gone away.’ She opened the door and showed me into the apartment.
‘Here we are,’ she said proudly. ‘There are six rooms in total. It’s not as big as some of the apartments in the street, but then not as expensive either. Fully furnished as I think I said.’
‘Lovely,’ I said looking about me.
‘I’m afraid that I haven’t yet had time to clean the place,’ she apologized. ‘Doctor Abs left a lot of rubbish to throw out. Not that I mind really. He gave me four weeks’ money in lieu of notice.’ She pointed at one door which was closed. ‘There’s still quite a bit of bomb damage showing in there. We had an incendiary in the courtyard when the Ivans came, but it’s due to be repaired very soon.’
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ I said generously.
‘Right then. I’ll leave you to have a little look around on your own, Professor Kurtz. Let you get a feel for the place. Just lock up after you and knock on my door when you’ve seen everything.’
When the old woman had gone I wandered among the rooms, finding only that for a single man Abs seemed to have received an extraordinarily large number of Care parcels, those food parcels that came from the United States. I counted the empty cardboard boxes that bore the distinctive initials and the Broad Street, New York address and found that there were over fifty of them.
It didn’t look like Care so much as good business.
When I had finished looking around I told the old woman that I was looking for something bigger and thanked her for allowing me to see the place. Then I strolled back to my pension in Skodagasse.
I wasn’t back very long before there was a knock at my door.
‘Herr Gunther?’ said the one wearing the sergeant’s stripes.
I nodded.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, please.’
‘Am I being arrested?’
‘Excuse me, sir?’
I repeated the question in my uncertain English. The American MP shifted his chewing-gum around impatiently.
‘It will be explained to you down at headquarters, sir.’
I picked up my jacket and slipped it on.
‘You will remember to bring your papers, won’t you, sir?’ he smiled politely. ‘Save us coming back for them.’
‘Of course,’ I said, collecting my hat and coat. ‘Have you got transport? Or are we walking?’
‘The truck’s right outside the front door.’
The landlady caught my eye as we came through her lobby. To my surprise she looked not at all perturbed. Maybe she was used to her guests getting pulled in by the International Patrol. Or perhaps she just told herself that someone else was paying for my room whether I slept there or in a cell at the police prison.
We climbed into the truck and drove a few metres north before a short turn to the right took us south down Lederergasse, away from the city centre and the headquarters of the IMP.
‘Aren’t we going to Kartnerstrasse?’ I said.
‘It isn’t an International Patrol matter, sir,’ the sergeant explained. ‘This is American jurisdiction. We’re going to the Stiftskaserne, on Mariahilferstrasse.’
‘To see who? Shields or Belinsky?’
‘It will be explained – ’
‘ – when we get there, right.’
The mock-baroque entrance to the Stiftskaserne, the headquarters of the 796th Military Police, with its half-relief Doric columns, griffins and Greek warriors, was situated, somewhat incongruously, between the twin entrances of Tiller’s department store, and was part of a four-storey building that fronted onto Mariahilferstrasse. We passed through the massive arch of this entrance and beyond the rear of the main building and a parade ground to another building, which housed a military barracks.
The truck drove through some gates and pulled up outside the barracks. I was escorted inside and up a couple of flights of stairs to a big bright office which commanded an impressive view of the anti-aircraft tower that stood on the other side of the parade ground.
Shields stood up from behind a desk and grinned like he was trying to impress the dentist.
‘Come on in and sit down,’ he said as if we were old friends. He looked at the sergeant. ‘Did he come peaceably, Gene? Or did you have to beat the shit out of his ass?’
The sergeant grinned a little and mumbled something which I didn’t catch. It was no wonder that one could never understand their English, I thought: Americans were forever chewing something.
‘You better stick around a while, Gene,’ Shields added. ‘Just in case we have to get tough with this guy.’ He uttered a short laugh and, hitching up his trousers, sat squarely in front of me, his heavy legs splayed apart like some samurai lord, except that he was probably twice as large as any Japanese.
‘First of all, Gunther, I have to tell you that there’s a Lieutenant Canfield, a real asshole Brit, down at International Headquarters who would love somebody to help him with a little problem he’s got. It seems like some stonemason in the British sector got himself killed when a rock fell on his tits. Mostly everyone, including the lieutenant’s boss, believes that it was probably an accident. Only the lieutenant’s the keen type. He’s read Sherlock Holmes and he wants to go to detective school when he leaves the army. He’s got this theory that someone tampered with the dead man’s books. Now I don’t know if that’s sufficient motive to kill a man or not, but I do remember seeing you go into Pichler’s office yesterday morning after Captain Linden’s funeral.’ He chuckled. ‘Hell, I admit it, Gunther. I was spying on you. Now what do you say to that?’
‘Pichler’s dead?’
‘How about it you try it with a little more surprise? “Don’t tell me Pichler is dead!” or “My God, I don’t believe what you are telling me!” You wouldn’t know what happened to him, would you, Gunther?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe the business was getting on top of him.’
Shields laughed at that one. He laughed like he had once taken a few classes in laughing, showing all his teeth, which were mostly bad, in a blue boxing-glove of a jaw that was wider than the top of his dark and balding head. He seemed loud, like most Americans, and then some. He was a big, brawny man with shoulders like a rhinoceros, and wore a suit of light-brown flannel with lapels that were as broad and sharp as two Swiss halberds. His tie deserved to hang over a café terrace, and his shoes were heavy brown Oxfords. Americans seemed to have an attraction for stout shoes in the same way that Ivans loved wristwatches: the only difference was that they generally bought them in shops.
‘Frankly, I don’t give a damn for that lieutenant’s problems,’ he said. ‘It’s shit in the British backyard, not mine. So let them sweep it up. No, I’m merely explaining your need to cooperate with me. You may have nothing at all to do with Pichler’s death, but I’m sure that you don’t want to waste a day explaining that to Lieutenant Canfield. So you help me and I’ll help you: I’ll forget I ever saw you go into Pichler’s shop. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your German,’ I said. All the same it struck me with what venom he attacked the accent, tackling the consonants with a theatrical degree of precision, almost as if he regarded the language as one which needed to be spoken cruelly. ‘I don’t suppose it would matter if I said that I know absolutely nothing about what happened to Herr Pichler?’
Shields shrugged apologetically. ‘As I said, it’s a British problem, not mine. Maybe you are innocent. But like I say, it sure would be a pain in the ass explaining it to those British. I swear they think every one of you krauts is a goddam Nazi.’
I threw up my hands in defeat. ‘So how can I help you?’
‘Well, naturally, when I heard that before coming to Captain Linden’s party you visited his murderer in prison, my inquiring nature could not be constrained.’ His tone grew sharper. ‘Come on, Gunther. I want to know what the hell is going on between you and Becker.’
‘I take it you know Becker’s side of the story.’
‘Like it was engraved on my cigarette-case.’
‘Well, Becker believes it. He’s paying me to investigate it. And, he hopes, to prove it.’
‘You’re investigating it, you say. So what does that make you?’
‘A private investigator.’
‘A shamus? Well, well.’ He leaned forwards on his chair, and taking hold of the edge of my jacket, felt the material with his finger and thumb. It was fortunate that there were no razor blades sewn on that particular number. ‘No, I can’t buy that. You’re not half greasy enough.’
‘Greasy or not, it’s true.’ I took out my wallet and showed him my ID. And then my old warrant disc. ‘Before the war I was with the Berlin Criminal Police. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Becker was too. That’s how I know him.’ I took out my cigarettes. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Smoke, but don’t let it stop your lips moving.’
‘Well, after the war I didn’t want to go back to the police. The force was full of Communists.’ I was throwing him a line with that one. There wasn’t one American I had met who seemed to like Communism. ‘So I set up in business on my own. Actually, I had a period out of the force during the mid-thirties, and did a bit of private work then. So I’m not exactly new at this game. With so many displaced persons since the war, most people can use an honest bull. Believe me, thanks to the Ivans they’re few and far between in Berlin.’
‘Yeah, well it’s the same here. Because the Soviets got here first they put all their own people in the top police jobs. Things are so bad that the Austrian government had to look to the chief of the Vienna Fire Service when they were trying to find a straight man to become the new vice-president of police.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re one of Becker’s old colleagues. How about that? What kind of cop was he, for Christ’s sake?’
‘The crooked kind.’
‘No wonder this country’s in such a mess. I suppose you were SS as well then?’
‘Briefly. When I found out what was going on I asked for a transfer to the front. People did, you know.’
