Zoo Station (17 page)

The Kripo?

She looked bewildered for a second. Yes, yes, I think so. There were so many of them. They must have been looking for a suicide note, I think. Or something to tell them why he did it.

Or a letter, Russell thought.

But I dont think they found anything, Frau Heidegger went on. They seemed very frustrated when they went. I suppose theyre worried that the Americans wont believe he killed himself.

Perhaps, Russell said. He still felt stunned.

They left the room very tidy, Frau Heidegger said inconsequentially. And they want to talk to you, she added. As soon as he gets back they said. And they put a note under your door saying the same thing. I have the telephone number. She disappeared back into her apartment for a few seconds and re-emerged with what looked like a torn-off page from a police notebook. There was a number and a nameKriminalinspektor Oehm.

Ill ring him now, Russell said.

Yes, please, Frau Heidegger said, as if it would take a huge weight off her mind.

The underling who answered knew who Russell was. The Kriminalinspektor would like to see you immediately, he said, with the stress on the last word. At the Alex. Room 456.

Im on my way, Russell said. It seemed the politic thing to do.

Ill look after your bag, Frau Heidegger said, picking it up and moving toward her door. You can collect it when you get back.

He started walking toward the U-bahn, thinking it would be quicker, but changed his mind once he reached Lindenstrasse. Why was he hurrying? And a tram ride would give him time to think.

He climbed aboard the first Alexanderplatz-bound tram and stared blankly out of the window. If there was one thing he knew, it was that McKinley hadnt killed himself. In fact, he could hardly think of anyone less likely to do so. He supposed it could have been an accidentthe platforms got pretty crowded at Zoo Station after theatre-closing timebut if so, why the rush to a suicide verdict? Frau Heidegger had mentioned witnesseslots of them. An apparent suicide, Russell realized, offered stronger grounds for a police investigation than a simple accident. Theyd spent most of yesterday in McKinleys room, and they must have been looking for something. Theresa Jurissens letter was an obvious candidate, but who knew what other pieces of paper McKinley had collected in support of his story. And it looked as though they hadnt found what they were looking for. Russell wasnt sure how reliable a judge of Kripo moods Frau Heidegger was, but the urgency of his summons certainly suggested they were missing something.

If they hadnt found the letter then where the hell was it? Six days had passed since he and McKinley had visited Theresa Jurissen and McKinley had been in a hurry; it didnt seem likely that hed taken his time sending her the money. Unless, of course, hed had trouble raising it. And she might have had trouble getting down to the poste restante to pick up the money. The letter could still be in the post. Or in her possession. Hed have to warn her, for his own sake as well as hers. If she was arrested, his own involvement would come out, and even if the Kripo accepted that hed only been along as an interpreter, hed still failed to report a possible crime against the state. At the very least, grounds for deportation. At worst. . . . It didnt bear thinking about.

If McKinley had received the letter and they hadnt found it, then what had he done with it? He might have risked posting it off to the States, but Russell didnt think so. If theyd been watching himand it seemed likely that they hadthen any outgoing mail would have been intercepted. Russell remembered McKinleys reluctant admission that he thought he was being followed, and his own scarcely concealed derision. Sorry, Tyler, he murmured out loud, drawing a stare from a woman opposite him.

Of course, McKinleys suspicions would have made him doubly careful. Which meant there was a good chance he had hidden the letter. But where? If he hadnt stashed it in his room, where could he have hidden it? Just about anywhere in Berlin, Russell thought, looking out at the Konigstrasse. McKinley had probably stolen an idea from one of the detective novels he read endlessly.

He got off outside the Alexanderplatz branch of Wertheim and walked under the railway bridge and into the square itself. The station and another department store, Tietz, occupied the northern side, the huge drab mass of the police praesidiumthe Alex, as all Berliners called itthe southern side. Russell walked past entrances 4, 3, and 2the latter housing the morgue where McKinleys body was presumably residingand in through the doors of 1, the all-purpose entrance.

The whole Berlin detective force, around 1,800 strong, worked out of this building, and Russell imagined some of them were still waiting for their offices to be discovered. He was gestured toward one of several staircases, and then spent about ten minutes pacing down a succession of identical-looking corridors in search of Room 456. The windows overlooking the inner courtyard were all barred, suggesting a penchant on the part of guests for throwing themselves out, which Russell found less than comforting. Eventually he was intercepted by a surprisingly helpful detective, who took him down the right flight of stairs and turned him into the right corridor.

K
riminalinspektor Oehms office looked like a work in progress. There were files everywherepiled on the desk, floor, windowsill, and filing cabinets. Oehm, a chubby man with a florid face, abundant fair hair and sharp-looking blue eyes, seemed unconcerned by the chaos, but his companion, a redhead with unusually pale skin, kept looking around himself in apparent disbelief. He was not introduced, but even without the telltale leather coat Russell would have assumed Gestapo.

Oehm invited him to sit down. Weve been trying to contact you since yesterday morning, he said.

Ive been out of town, Russell said.

So your fiancee told us.

Russell said nothing. He hoped Effi had behaved herself.

Where exactly were you? the Gestapo man asked.

Poland. Cracow to be precise. Im working on a series of articles on Germanys neighbors, he volunteered.

You know why we wish to talk to you? Oehm said.

I assume its about Tyler McKinley.

Correct. You were surprised by the news?

That he committed suicide. Yes, I was.

Oehm shrugged. He must have had his reasons.

Perhaps. Are you certain he killed himself?

Absolutely. There is no doubt. We have several witnesses. Reliable witnesses. A police officer, for one.

Then he must have, Russell agreed. He still couldnt see why theywhoever, exactly,
they
werehad needed to kill McKinley, and he didnt suppose he would ever find out. It didnt much matter, really. His knowing certainly wouldnt help McKinley.

There is one possible reason for his action, Oehm said. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but . . . well, we have good reason to believe that your friend had become involved with political elements hostile to the state, that he may have become part of a plot against the state involving forged official documentsdocuments, that is to say, which have been fabricated to create a misleading and slanderous impression of activities inside the Reich.

What sort of activities? Russell asked innocently.

That is not your concern, the Gestapo man said.

And he wasnt my friend, Russell added. I liked him, but we hardly ever saw each other for more than a chat on the stairs. A drink every month or so, perhaps. Nothing more.

Ah. . . .

And if he was involved in this plot, why would that lead him to kill himself? Russell asked.

Perhaps it all got to be too much for him, and he couldnt think of any other way out, Oehm suggested.

He didnt give you anything to keep for him? the Gestapo man asked.

No, he didnt.

You are sure about that.

One hundred percent.

The Gestapo man looked skeptical, but said nothing.

One more thing, Oehm said. Herr McKinleys sister will be arriving in Berlin on Wednesday. To take the body home. . . .

Hows she getting here so quickly? Russell asked.

She is apparently flying across the Atlantic. The Americans have these new flying-boatsClippers I believe theyre calledand though theyre not yet in public service, there are frequent trials. Proving flights, they call them. . . .

Yes, yes, the Gestapo man murmured, but Oehm ignored him.

I am a flyer myself, he told Russell. Weekends only, of course.

We all need hobbies, Russell agreed. But how has McKinleys sister wangled a flight on one these. . . .

Clippers. I imagine Senator McKinley used his influence to get his niece a place on one of them.

Senator
McKinley?

Tyler McKinleys uncle. Oehm noticed the surprise in Russells face. You did not know his uncle was a US Senator?

Like I said, we werent exactly friends. He could understand why McKinley had kept quiet about itthe boy would have hated anyone thinking he owed anything to family connections. But he was amazed that none of his fellow American journalists had spilled the beans. They must have assumed Russell knew.

As I was saying, Oehm continued, his sister will arrange for the body to be sent home and collect her brothers effects. I was hoping you could be here when we talk to her, as an interpreter and someone who knew her brother.

I can do that.

Her plane from Lisbon arrives around eleven. So, if you could be here at one?

I will be. Is that all?

Yes, Herr Russell, that is all. Oehm smiled at him. The Gestapo man gave him the merest of nods.

Russell retraced his steps to the main entrance. As he emerged into the open air he took a deep breath in and blew it out again. One thing was certainthey hadnt found the letter.

He crossed the square and walked into a cafe underneath the Stadtbahn tracks which he occasionally patronized. After ordering a couple of frankfurters and a
kartoffelsalad
he perched on a stool by the window, cleared a hole in the condensation, and looked out. No one had followed him in, but was anyone loitering outside? He couldnt see anyone obvious, but that didnt mean much. He would have to make sure by going through Tietz, pulling a variation of the same trick he and McKinley had pulled in the Neukolln KaDeWe. But it would have to look like an accident. He didnt want them thinking hed lost them on purpose.

The food tasted bad, which was unusual. It was the taste in his mouth, Russell thought. Fear.

He crossed the road and walked into Tietz, heading for the rank of telephone booths that he remembered outside the stores ground floor tea room. Ensconced in the first booth, he looked back along the aisle he had just walked. No one looked furtive. He dialed Effis number.

She answered on the second ring. Youre back. I had the police. . . .

I know. Ive just come from the Alex. Im sorry you got. . . .

Oh, it was no problem. They didnt break anything. I was just worried about you. Are you really upset? You didnt know him that well, did you?

No, I didnt. I feel sad, though. He was a nice enough man.

Are you coming over?

Yes, but itll be a few hours. Say around six. I have to see someone.

Okay.

Ill see you then.

I love you.

I love you, too.

He replaced the receiver and scanned the aisle again. Still nothing. A taxi, he decided. From this side of the station, where there were often only two or three waiting.

He was in luckthere was only one. Friedrichstrasse Station, he told the driver, and watched through the rear window as they swung round beneath the railway and headed down Kaiser Wilhelmstrasse. There was no sign of pursuit. At Friedrichstrasse he hurried down the steps to the U-bahn platform, reaching it as a Grenzallee train pulled in. He stepped aboard, standing beside the doors until they closed, but no one else emerged through the platform gates.

The train pulled out and he sunk into the nearest seat. Should he be waiting for darkness? he wondered. Or would that be even riskier? He had no real idea, and felt shaken by how important such a decision could be.

Neukolln was the lines penultimate stop. Russell climbed up to the street, where the loudspeakers were broadcasting Hitlers long-awaited speech to the Reichstag. A small crowd had gathered around the one outside KaDeWe, faces overcast as the sky. The Fuhrers tone was calm and reasonable, which suggested he was just warming up.

Russell walked on, following a trail of street names familiar from the week before. It was a good thing he recognized these, because the area seemed utterly different by daylight, its workshops and factories bursting with noisy activity, its cobbled streets full of rumbling lorries. Most of the workplaces were broadcasting the speech to their employees, and Hitlers words seeped out through doors and over walls, a promise here, a threat there, a piece of self-congratulation sandwiched in between. Stopping for a moment on a bridge across the Neukollner-Schiffahrtkanal, Russell heard fragments of the speech tossed around on the breeze, like the puffs of windstrewn smoke belching from the myriad chimneys.

Schonlankerstrasse was empty, the block door wide open. He walked in and knocked on Theresa Jurissens door. There was no answer. He knocked again with the same result, and was wondering what to do when footsteps sounded on the stairs. It was her.

Her face registered alarm, and then anger. Without speaking, she opened her door and gestured him in. Marietta was sitting exactly where she had been on his last visit, still drawing, still oblivious. What do you want? Theresa asked, the moment the door was closed behind her.

Im sorry, he said. I know this is dangerous for you, but not coming might have been more dangerous. He told her about McKinleys death. Could the police connect you? he asked. Did you ever write to him?

No, she said. Never.

What about the document you told us about?

I sent it, but thats all. I gave no name or address.

Russell sighed in relief. When did you send it?

Last week. Thursday afternoon.

McKinley had received it. He must have. Russell explained why he had asked. They havent found it, he told her. He must have hidden it somewhere.