Berlin Burning (3 page)

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

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‘W
ell, 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

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H
arry 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 kept 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?'

‘Don't you want to know where I was?' Fleischer said. ‘I assume I am a suspect.'

An odd thing to say. Trautmann countered with: ‘To some in the department you're the only suspect.'

‘So you want to know if I killed him.' Fleischer smiled.

‘Not yet,' Trautmann said. ‘First you need to come with us into custody.'

Fleischer choked on his cigarette. ‘Are you mad?'

Trautmann heard Roth shuffle uneasily behind him. ‘Not as mad as you'll be if you refuse. Kessler and his hoodlums are on their way here. It's only a matter of time. And for some reason, he really wants you for this. I mean he doesn't just suspect you did it. He
wants
you to have done it. And I'm assuming you knew about Meist's political leanings, so you can bet on reprisals...'

‘Brownshirts?' Fleischer snorted. ‘Those bozos put out my window every other week. Sometimes I wonder what I pay you Kripo boys for.'

Roth tutted, drawing Fleischer's attention.

‘Hey, Crip, don't you give me any of that!' the big man roared. ‘I meant taxes, not bribes. Bribes are for Vice, not Homicide.'

‘What, you pay taxes?' Roth shot back.

‘Roth!' Trautmann warned.

‘No,' Roth said, ‘I say let them get him. What do we care? He's as bad as the SA. Worse, he's been around longer. It's all just money to him. At least those brownshirted cretins are doing what they do out of principle, however cretinous.'

Fleischer looked at Trautmann. ‘One of the new educated intake, is he?'

‘Criminology degree, no less,' Trautmann said. ‘But he's done his share.'

Fleischer got out of his chair and walked over to Roth, who was standing by the door.

‘Where did you lose the arm, rookie?' the big man said.

‘I'm no rookie,' Roth said.

Fleischer laughed. ‘I've killed men for talking to me that way.'

‘That's supposed to impress me?' Roth said.

‘It's supposed to scare you.'

Trautmann slammed the desk with a palm and they both turned his way.

‘It's Maria you need to be scared for, Fleischer,' he said. ‘Wherever you've sent her, if you try to go to her now you could be putting her in danger, either from the SA or from Kessler's men. You know what they are when they're blood's up.'

‘Trigger happy,' Fleischer said.

‘So do the sensible thing and come with us. That'll draw the sting and keep the focus on police headquarters while – '

There was a loud percussive bang that shook the door. Followed quickly by the sound of screaming.

‘Aw, what now?' said Fleischer, pulling the door open.

Smoke obscured Trautmann's view of the club – the black, oily smoke of an accelerant. Even without it, he wouldn't have been able to see anything for the press of panicking patrons.

‘What is it?' Roth said.

A flickering orange glow pierced the smoke, hissing as it came closer.

‘Bomb!' Fleischer shouted, bearing the two detectives to the floor.

Chapter 6

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T
he back of Trautmann's head bumped the floor. He'd half-twisted his body too, so his Walther dug into his hip at the same time.

The second bomb popped; so did his ears, muffling the patrons' screams and the sound of shattering glass like a volume dial on a radio turned suddenly all the way down.

Trautmann pushed Fleischer's meaty arm away and pulled clear, confused by the press of legs – human, chair and table – all about him.

He caught a mouthful of the black smoke and coughed into a sitting position. He put out a hand to steady himself, felt a bite at his palm.

Head spinning – was that from the smoke or striking his head? Looking down, shards of glass were twinkling in the sawdust studding his bleeding palm – impossibly tiny shards. He tasted kerosene at the back of his throat.

Fleischer had got around the end of the bar. His pistol – a Mauser – appeared in his fist and spat out a couple of shots.

Trautmann shouted an order to stop but his words came out like the braying of a barnyard animal. Ringing in his ears told him what was wrong: not his speech, his hearing.

And, to cap it all, he couldn't see Roth from where he sat.

A woman in a glittering blue dress ran past Trautmann, spearing the back of his left hand with a spiked heel. He grunted, jaw dropping. One ear popped again, this time breaking the silence with a rush of air, unbalancing him – one side deaf, the other awash with formless noise.