Berlin Burning (2 page)

‘A gun?' Roth asked.

‘Well, I may just be a humble Schupo,' Kessler said, ‘but I reckon I know a fatal gunshot wound when I see one.'

Trautmann looked down at the body, a young blond male dressed in the brown uniform of Hitler's Sturmabteilung. Dead though he was, he still oozed blood onto the rug. ‘Anyone hear anything?'

‘Round here?' Kessler made a face. ‘What do you think?'

‘I thought you had your ways,' Roth said.

‘Now now, Admiral. No need to get jealous because we know how to get results.'

‘So what have you found out?' Roth snapped. ‘Anything?'

‘Do we have the boy's name?' Trautmann cut in.

Kessler referred to a notebook. ‘Jan Meist, according to his landlady.'

‘Who is...?'

‘The old girl on the next landing up. And a real pleasure she is, too. I can't wait for you to meet her.'

‘And the young woman here?' Trautmann showed them the photograph. ‘She lived with him, I take it?'

‘That's the best part.' Kessler grinned. ‘You'll never guess who she is. Fair gives us our killer straight out of the gate.'

‘You're right,' Trautmann said. ‘I won't guess who she is. So why don't you just tell me.'

‘Maria Fleischer.'

Trautmann looked at Roth and Roth looked at Trautmann.

‘She's related to Fleischer?' Trautmann said.

Kessler clapped his hands. ‘I know. Great, isn't it? I can have my squad ready to pick him up as soon as the lab boys are done here.'

Roth clicked his tongue in disgust.

‘No, you don't,' Trautmann said. ‘Not without we've spoken to him first.'

‘Oh, come on, Mule!' Kessler said. ‘What more do you want? Meist beats up his girl, makes her go out
pros-pec-ting
' – he drew out the word – ‘to pay the rent. She tells her uncle, who comes and puts two bullets in him for her. Simple.'

‘Whoa, not so simple,' Trautmann said. ‘Beats up his girl?'

‘Ask the landlady. She's full of it. You'll get all you need from her.'

‘And what about this man she was supposedly with when Meist came in here?' Roth said. ‘Anyone see what happened to him?'

‘Who else but Fleischer would be able to get hold of a gun in this part of town?' Kessler said.

‘Maybe they didn't get the gun in this part of town,' Roth said. ‘Maybe this gentleman caller was an army officer. Or a pol...' He cut himself off and regarded the knot of uniformed patrolmen standing close by.

‘Or a what?' Kessler said.

‘We can soon settle this,' Trautmann said. ‘Do you have the gun?'

‘Sarge,' bellowed a voice; a young Schupoman entered the apartment with a pistol in his hand. ‘We found it! In the drains outside.'

Trautmann couldn't contain his anger. ‘Kessler! Tell me that man isn't contaminating evidence!'

Kessler blushed.

‘That's it!' Trautmann shouted. ‘Everybody out – RIGHT NOW!'

Chapter 2

––––––––

‘H
ave a look at this,' Roth said. He stood by the fireplace, reading a newspaper clipping fixed to the mantelpiece.

Trautmann straightened from his examination of the body. As well as the wound at the dead man's temple, he'd found some bruising on the knuckles and the arms.

He hoped the pretty girl from the photograph would not turn out to have been abused – or to be the killer. Still, this wouldn't have been the first time domestic violence had lain behind a murder. He pulled off his rubber gloves as he went over to the fireplace.

‘The bullets passed through the torso,' he told Roth, ‘so the lab boys will need to locate them. The casings too. I can't bloody well find them.'

He'd analysed the pistol Kessler's man had smeared with his prints: a clunky model 8 Walther that took 6.35mm rounds. Matching the spent bullets would clinch it as the murder gun; most Walthers were now 7.65mm, including the standard issue PPK he carried.

‘Think you can work up a sketch before we touch anything else?'

Roth said he could.

‘Much as I hate to say it, I think Kessler was right about the sequence of events,' Trautmann said. ‘Which means we likely have an as-yet unknown third party roaming the streets.'

Roth grunted. ‘No wonder the 87
^th
are so keen to get this solved,' he said. ‘Our friend there is practically one of them.'

‘Come now, Roth, let's not go through this again.'

‘No – you come now. You know that precinct is honeycombed with Nazis.'

Trautmann longed for his pipe. But he couldn't smoke it at the scene for fear of contamination, so his irritation grew.

‘Politics should be left at the door, Roth.'

‘How can you be so naïve? I wouldn't be surprised if Kessler was hauling his troglodytes off to Bülowplatz this very second looking for Reds to assault.'

Trautmann thought of Fleischer's sometime-association with the KPD. The links between communism and organised crime ran deep in those parts, but Trautmann was determined to keep from reaching too hasty a conclusion.

He took in the patch of blue-black stubble beneath his assistant's jaw, the bloodshot eyes that spoke of beer hall intrigues with his
Reichsbanner
comrades before work. How old was Roth? Trautmann didn't know. But he couldn't have been more than thirty; hardly older than the boy lying dead on the rug with his guts shot up.

‘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

––––––––

K
essler 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 pipe 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.