“Thanks for your help the other day. Sorry I had to drag you into all that.”
“I’ll always be there for you. Although, of course, I’d rather it wasn’t to help you capture a murderous Nazi, but I’ll be here.” Irene shuffled over in the bed and laid her head on Bill’s chest. “It just got me thinking about Violette. I still miss her.”
“We all do. She was the best of us.”
“Why did they have to move her when they did? She might still be alive if they had left her a little longer at that house on the avenue. Her poor daughter.”
“I ask myself the same thing all the time. Barbie said they left us alone out of the goodness of their hearts. But they don’t have hearts. I’m not sure what was planned for Jack and me, but it wasn’t freedom. They left in a big hurry, I think. We were the least of their problems.”
Irene looked up and had tears in her eyes. A tear ran out of one corner down her cheek.
“I’ve lost everyone, Bill. My parents died at the hands of the Nazis, my best friend, and even my husband. I don’t miss him, but I did love him once. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“I’m right here.”
“What happened to your family, Bill? You’ve never mentioned them.”
“Not much to tell. My dad died when I was young, and my mother and her sister brought me up, although much of the time, I was at boarding school and then university. My mother died while I was at Sandhurst, finishing up officer training. So, she never got to see me pass out in my uniform.”
“It’s sad you never knew your father.”
“I knew no different. He was a hard-hearted man by all accounts. All I remember of him was the one time we visited him on the Isle of Man. He was held there in a place called Douglas Camp as a prisoner of war.” Bill shook his head. “Ridiculous. Prisoner of war? The man had only ever held up a pen. He was a journalist. The assistant editor of a newspaper for German immigrants living in England. He died while in captivity when I was four. No one knows what happened, or at least they never told me. All he was ever able to give me is this,” Bill said as he held up the silver vesta case that had been on the bedside table, “and an empty house full of sad memories.”
“Wow. What a terrible way to treat people.”
“Yes. It’s what governments do, Irene. What made you ask, anyway?”
“Trying to take my mind off things in the here and now. I’m just scared. You and Jack are playing a perilous game. Barbie knows what he is doing and wasn’t worried about capture. He knows we’re working for the government.”
Bill had no intention of worrying her further, so he kept Barbie’s release into the hands of the Americans to himself.
“He’s safe under lock and key now. So, who’s he going to tell?”
“What if he already has?”
Bill stopped and thought about it. If he had been following them, maybe he had already passed information. To whom? The Soviets? Not likely, but not impossible. He hated their ideology, but he was also undoubtedly the mercenary type. The currency people like Barbie appreciated, though, was not money. It was power. Or at least a corrupt simulation of it. One where they got to decide if you live or die. If you were a Jew, gypsy or homosexual, there was only one answer you could expect, and as it transpired, a tiny blood group tattoo under your arm would not stop him.
“I think rats like him tend to work alone,” he lied. The truth was far too worrying.
“You know we broke the rules today, don’t you? We shouldn’t even know what we are each doing in the city, let alone wrestling with a prisoner or sharing a bed.”
“Errington must have set us up for a reason.” Bill paused to think about it. Set us up. It made him feel uneasy.
“I asked him to. I told him what close friends we had been. I knew you were in Berlin, as I had spoken to Vera.”
“How is she?”
“Troubled. Deeply troubled. The places she had to go. The things she had to hear about Violette and all the others. She traced almost all of them. One hell of an undertaking.”
“She is a good woman. None of the families will forget what she has done for their memory.”
“Aren’t you curious about what I am doing in Berlin, Bill?”
“Of course, but I know better than to ask, and you should know better than to tell me.”
“You have trusted me. I think I ought to trust you.”
“Don’t, Irene. I’m not even sure I trust myself.”
“But it might help your investigation.”
“Then, sleep on it. If you are sure, you can tell me in the morning.”
“Alright. I love you, Bill.”
“No, you don’t, and you shouldn’t. It complicates everything too much, and in this city it could get us both killed.”
Bill woke with a start. He thought he had heard something. He instinctively looked around the room. Nothing. Just the faint glow of the moonlight through the slatted blind. He closed his eyes and tried to drift back to sleep.
Somewhere in his half-dream state, he could hear footsteps and shouts in German voices. He could see dangling boots, old artillery guns and cigarette haze at some old Parisian cabaret. Then there was a face he recognised in the smokey mist. It was Violette. Young, bright-eyed. Alive. He looked about him and found he was now in a muddy field. He saw long wooden barns that were walled on all sides, but these elongated huts housed people. Hungry, emaciated, dying people in striped pyjamas.
He caught the recognisable smell of cordite in the air and turned to see a group of schoolboys drinking and shooting off fireworks. One of the boys dropped to his knees, and his head sank. Chin on his chest. He was holding a short-barrelled revolver. As he lifted his head once more, Bill squinted through the smoke to see it was Andre. He was younger than Bill remembered him. He had the same face from an old photograph he had seen once in a cafe. Where though? Bill couldn’t recall.
A shot rang out, and as he spun around, he realised he was surrounded by barbed wire. Violette was on her knees, blood gathering in a pool around her. An SS officer stood over her. He was holding a pistol and laughing. His face was daubed in Violette’s blood. Bill could not place it. He tried to move, but the barbed wire tightened around him, sending sharp pain throughout his body. As he felt the last of the air squeezing out of his lungs, he tried to scream but was now paralysed. The face. It was the blood-speckled face of Ernst Misselwitz.
Bill jolted himself awake violently. He realised he had been dreaming and tried to lick his dry lips with his tongue. He was covered in sweat but cold. Dragging himself from the bed, he paused briefly to check Irene was still asleep.
Bill made himself a glass of water. As he sipped his dry mouth back to life, he peered out through the window onto the street below and then checked his wristwatch. It was just before midnight. He looked up at the sky to see the moon was shining brightly. The last of the thin snow clinging to the grassy areas that surrounded the tree stumps that lined the paved road glistened under the white limelight. The familiar sound of a motorcar broke the silence outside.
A pristine pre-war BMW roadster appeared in view, slowed down outside the building, and then carried on up the avenue. It was a strange maroon-almost-red colour, but curiously the driver’s door was painted black, like the canvas roof. Bill leaned and tried to see the occupants but could not make out anyone inside as it disappeared from view. He heard it pull up somewhere nearby, farther down the street. The door opened, then closed. He could still hear the engine running.
Down below, a man in a black hat had appeared on the wide pavement outside the building’s lobby. He was ambling and looking around him. He was wearing a long wool coat, gloves and a dark scarf. From the angle, Bill could not determine what he was doing, but he moved warily and watched behind him as if he had been followed there. Bill felt very uneasy and left the window briefly to put on his clothes. As he picked up his coat, he dropped the tobacco tin that had been resting on top, sending it clattering onto the coffee table and spilling its contents on the carpet.
“Bill?” Irene murmured. She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
“It’s alright, go back to sleep.”
“Where are you going?”
Her hair was sticking out in every direction, and in her half-awake state, peering through the darkness, she frowned, trying to make out Bill’s outline.
“You look cute when you are still half asleep, you know.”
“I look awful. Come to mention it, so do you. What’s happening?”
“I had a bad dream. So, I thought I’d get some air and settle my nerves.”
“You are lying, Bill. Why are you taking your gun?”
He looked down at the little Colt he had picked up without thinking. He put down the pistol and donned his jacket. Bill thought it was better not to alarm her. He quickly but calmly tied his shoelaces, then moved back over to the window and peered carefully at the street. The man was still there. He put his hand to the top of his hat and looked up. For a split second, Bill could have sworn their eyes met. Bill reminded himself that he couldn’t see him through the blind.
He could just make out who it was as he continued to peer down. When he recognised the man, he wondered if he was still dreaming? No, of course, his mind was not playing tricks on him. He was very much wide awake. The man outside appeared to be the actor Orson Welles.
Bill went back and collected up his gun.
“Do you have one to hand?”
“Of course, here in the bedside drawer, but what’s going on?”
“I’ll explain when I get back. If anyone except me comes through that door, slot them,” he said as he rushed out. Then, just as he closed it behind him, he added, “I won’t be long.”
Bill strode down the long, lit hallway and the stairs. Crossing the empty lobby, he could see the concierge desk deserted. All the lights were switched off, which was very out of the ordinary. The backroom door that was almost always open was closed, without even the tell-tale glow of light from under the door giving away its occupancy. He looked out through the glass frontage, but Orson had disappeared.
Carefully moving towards the door, he slipped the lock and slowly pulled it open. The calm, cold night air slapped Bill across the face with an icy open palm. Squinting into the darkness, he let his eyes acclimatise to the twilight of the open street. He could see the upstairs hallway lights every time he blinked. He glanced around, looking for the agent, but the road was empty.
The car door, Bill thought. He was suddenly acutely aware of the possibility of a second person in the vicinity. He instinctively gripped his pistol inside his coat pocket. He kept his back close to the wall as he skirted around the edge of the building and along the street. There was an empty plot next door, another casualty of the Russian bombardment of the city, or maybe it was the Royal Air Force. Either way, Bill was thankful for the small amount of cover it would give him.
Bill recalled his old schooldays. They always seemed to hijack his thoughts at the most inopportune moments. He had been made to study the ancient Saxon epic, Beowulf. At first glance, it was all gibberish, but his English master had a particular way of explaining things. To bring the old text to life and present it concisely. The most memorable part for Bill had been the shadow-goers. They were mythical beings, neither alive nor dead. They stalked the forests and coexisted with the people of the villages. They were the rustling in the leaves. They were the darkness of the night.
Bill gripped the handle of his revolver and slipped into the shadows. He felt the night. He had to become the night.
He moved silently across the empty square of moss and mud and slid up against the opposite wall. He peered around by carefully shifting to the edge of the building’s corner. He spotted the agent in the black hat slip away from the street and down a small alleyway that led to another adjoining empty lot.
This could work out perfectly, Bill thought, as he turned back, crossed his muddy square and popped out in the rear of the buildings. He hopped easily over a short wall and into the neighbouring gardens. Following a path topped with flagstones, he reached a gate, which he found mercifully unlocked. He quietly lifted the latch and squirmed through the tight gap, carefully closing the latch behind him. He was almost to the other empty lot. He scurried, bent low across the next courtyard, and then bashed his head on a wooden planter mounted on the wall at about waist height.
He stifled the expletives he so desperately wanted to let out. So much for the shadow-goer. He stood and vaulted the final fence into the empty gap between the buildings and spun around, seeking his target.
Nothing. No one was there. Bill quickly looked around for footprints to show his man had been here. It was like he had disappeared into the night. Maybe Orson Welles was the real shadow-goer? Bill knew he hadn’t imagined it. The unknown agent had come down the alleyway but was now gone. Bill walked over to it, but there was no sign of him. Was all this just some madness Bill had formed in his mind? An extension of the bizarre dreams, like some kind of thought-residue?
Then he heard it. The sound that he would never shake from his ears. The shots. The two sickening claps of noise sounded like someone banging two wooden boards together. He had heard many gunshots in his time. Some were a lot closer than others. These shots sounded dampened and came from about four buildings away, back the way he had come, deadened perhaps by closed glass windows.
Irene. He had left the front door to the building unlocked.
Bill sprinted up the alley with little care about who might be waiting at the other end. Rounding the corner onto the street, he made barely a cursory glance about him as he ran straight back towards the building. The few hundred yards seemed, at that moment, to be five miles. The faster he ran, the farther it seemed. He felt like he was running through custard. His feet grew heavy as he pushed through the rising lactic acid that had started to grip his muscles.
Adrenaline took over, and his heart raced it around his body. The world’s oldest and most reliable wonder drug. He soon felt a renewed lightness. Now he was moving like a greased weasel. Then, finally, he arrived at the doorway of the end. The glass door was wide open. He ran towards the stairwell and up the stairs, his feet barely touching them. He emerged into the hallway with his arm outstretched, holding up his gun. He could smell the cordite from the gunshots.
Shuffling and muffled voices emanated from behind the doors of the other apartments. Bill had to move quickly. He could only hope it had been Irene who had fired the shots. He dared not call out in case the agent was still there. Instead, he approached Irene’s open door and peered inside. He couldn’t see anything except his own shadow, cast long into the room from the hall’s ornate wall lights. He reached around and flipped the light switch.
Across the empty sitting area, through the archway, Irene was sprawled on her side on the bed. Her hand was outstretched, touching the small table on the far side of the bed. The back of her head was wet with blood, which was now seeping into the sheets and blankets on the unmade bed. The windows at the back were open, and the open curtains fluttered gently in the light breeze.
“What’s happened?” came a French voice from out in the hallway as the other residents started to bravely leave the sanctuary of their apartments and the wooden doors they thought might have somehow protected them from a crazed killer.
Bill darted across the room. He forced himself to switch off his emotions and concentrate on the facts. He probably had twenty seconds before one of the nosey busybodies poked his head around the open doorway. Irene had been shot nearer the foot of the bed, but the blood trail indicated she had reached for the drawer in her last moments.
“Someone call the police!” the next voice called out in German this time.
Bill looked around for clues. He didn’t notice anything particular but hoped his near-photographic memory might help him later. Checking the drawer she was reaching for in those dying moments, he found only a key. It had been carefully polished at the ring end, and only a few letters were barely visible from the original stamping. Attached was a small brass disc with the number ninety-four cheaply stamped. Bill avoided looking at her face but caught a glimpse of her expression. For a moment, Bill just wanted to lie next to her and wait for the police to show up. But he knew that was foolhardy. It could only end in a prison cell. British, Russian, who knows, but he would struggle to prove his innocence from behind bars.
A head appeared around the doorway, and a young woman looked shocked, then disappeared. Bill looked up and noticed a discarded Luger on the floor. The killer’s weapon? He did not want to further tamper with the scene, but he briefly smelled it and confirmed it had been recently fired. From his knees, he glanced around and spotted the single brass case it had ejected under the bed. That accounted for one shot. But what of the other? The Luger could have been Irene’s. No other case was present. Did the killer use a revolver?
Bill looked down at the revolver in his hand. A fairly standard American-issued Colt Detective Special that fired a common .38 bullet. Looking at the exit hole in Irene’s head, it could have been about that size. With its far heavier bullet, a British service revolver would have caused more damage. He noticed, too, his pipe tobacco strewn across the floor, trodden into the carpet by the killer. Too much of this circumstantial evidence pointed to Bill.
A small crowd gathered in the hallway. Witnesses that could identify him. It was time to leave. Rapidly.