As Müller rounded the corner, Jack, well-hidden to the side of him, pressed his automatic into his temple.
“Jack, meet my acquaintance, Chief Müller,” Bill announced.
“Ah, the bent copper,” Jack replied.
“They don’t come much more bent than this one.”
Müller said nothing as he made his Luger safe, opened his creased cheap suit-jacket and placed it back into his expensive-looking handmade shoulder holster. He then shoved his large glasses back up towards the bridge of his nose and sat down, uninvited. He casually looked at the body of Klein, then followed the invisible path of the bullet up and into the splattered ceiling. No stranger to the aftermath of violent death, much like the other men in the room, the cop in him took over as he looked around the edge of the table and scanned for the spent cartridge on the floor.
“I have cops on their way down here now,” he calmly stated, uncharacteristically.
“Sure, you do,” Jack snorted and returned his gun to his jacket pocket.
“Until we can establish the facts, you will be under suspicion of murder. I don’t like dead bodies appearing in my sector, and they keep showing up, thanks to you two clowns,” he said, looking over at the lifeless body of Klein. There seemed to be very little blood, despite the hole in the top of his skull and the brain matter on the ceiling.
“Keep showing up? What are you implying? Had a busy week, have you?” Jack sarcastically replied.
“Yes, it’s all very regrettable. I had other plans for your friend here,” Bill said, half grinning. “Were you a fan of his … work?”
“He was no friend of mine. Not my thing. If you ask me, he was a sick pervert, but I take my orders, and he was supposed to be allowed to carry on.”
“He also gave us a potted history of his war service.” Bill had a glint in his eye and started to feel like he was finally getting somewhere. He also knew he had one up on Müller and wasn’t about to forego the chance to stick the boot in. “So, you were a camp guard too?”
“I guess the scrawny fuck talked, then, huh? Of course, he did.” He nonchalantly shrugged, looking contemptuously at the slumped body. “A lowly camp guard?” he scoffed. “No. I was a fighting man. Spent my years on the Eastern Front. It was my second war. When I got evacuated back with frostbite, I returned to my role as a detective with the police, right here in Berlin.”
“And, so they let you keep your job,” Jack added, speaking to himself.
“The allies couldn’t run a bath, let alone a city like Berlin. They have too much else to deal with. Mainly squabbling amongst themselves. They need men like me to keep order. Besides, an Iron Cross, First Class, and a frozen meat medal open doors in Germany, even after the Nazis.”
“Men like you,” Bill repeated. The words sat like ash in his mouth.
“Mind if I smoke?” Müller asked and pulled out a pack of French cigarettes without waiting for a response. He carefully drew out a stick from the pack and offered them around. Both men shook their heads. Then, lighting up with a small silver lighter from his jacket pocket, he drew on it, expelled a stream of bluish smoke, and said, “I’m afraid to say you are both under arrest. There is no point in fighting this. You may think you have one up on me, but I can assure you that my employers know all about my past. You have no bartering chips here, gentlemen.”
“You mean your sworn enemy, the Russians?”
“I don’t have enemies anymore. Haven’t you heard? The war’s over.”
“Maybe we’ll just add you to the city’s recent body count and chalk it up to bad luck in a bad neighbourhood,” Jack suggested.
“Bad neighbourhood? Around here? We are surrounded by shops frequented by the cream of the French military, civil servants and diplomatic delegates. You won’t last a day out there having killed the French sector’s chief of police.”
Müller suddenly stopped speaking, and the three men turned to watch a black-suited figure appear from around the bookcase. He had a loose-fitting baggy newsboy cap pulled down to the bridge of his nose. His face was cast in shadow, revealing only his wide, rounded jaw. Above his mouth was a thin, neat moustache. Between his lips sat a glowing half-smoked cigarette, surrounding him in a misty spectral aurora.
The tall, well-built, shadowy figure made his way towards Müller, who, to his credit, didn’t so much as widen his gaze. He sat and smoked with barely a hint of concern. The shadow said nothing as he slowly paced the twelve feet to the workbench. His thumb carefully pulled back on the hammer of the old, police-issue, short, four-inch barrelled Webley revolver. He slightly raised his arm and pointed the gun at Müller, looking up as he did so to peer from below his floppy peaked cap.
The dull light of the room caught his features. They were the distinct features of a man with the face of Orson Welles.
“I don’t think I will let you arrest anyone today, Müller.”