Tanneberger closed the doors and swung on Reinhardt, his face suffused with his anger.
“Reinhardt, I swear to God, I will have your badge if you do that again.”
“Do what?”
“What? What? Embarrass me like that, you idiot.”
“That was not my intention, sir.”
“What were you trying to do, Reinhardt? Convince us you are not an American stooge? Look good in front of Bliemeister? We all know you are Collingridge’s creature.”
“Sir! I . . .” Reinhardt thought he was inured to this type of accusation, but nevertheless he still seemed to feel its bite as keenly every time.
“Be quiet, Reinhardt. This is not a conversation. I have had my doubts and suspicions for long enough. I have to put up with you, and that’s bad enough. I don’t have to sit and watch you pretend ignorance about what Collingridge and the Britishers wanted. Well, I’ll have no bloody American stooges in this force.”
“As opposed to what? Soviet ones?” snapped Reinhardt. Tanneberger’s mouth dropped open and he flushed. “Exactly what are you accusing me of, here?”
“Of informing the Allies about this investigation. Of bringing them into it.”
“The Allies heard about it through their own channels. You heard them.”
“Please, Reinhardt, do not treat me as if I was born yesterday. The last thing we need is a politicized investigation.”
“And that’s really the last thing you can think of that we need?”
“Inspector Reinhardt,” Tanneberger spluttered.
“What now, Reinhardt?” Ganz asked.
“I intend to pursue my inquiries into Noell’s murder,” Reinhardt answered.
“What about Carlsen? And that prostitute?”
“I will, of course, look into that if you feel it necessary, but perhaps you might assign another officer, as we seem to be faced with two separate investigations. That way, there can be no accusations of collusion on my part.”
He had them there, he realized, watching them glance at each other. Reinhardt wanted this conversation over, wanting at least the chance to get after those British agents.
“Tanneberger,” Ganz murmured, his eyes fixed on Reinhardt. “I think it would be best for all if Reinhardt was kept off the investigation into Carlsen’s murder. I think he can be relied upon to follow up on the death of Noell instead.”
“Do you think so?” Tanneberger replied, apparently eager at the way out offered by Ganz.
“Besides which, I am concerned that if the Carlsen investigation gets rough—which I suspect it will if we have to go digging around in the criminal world—then I will need officers I can rely on fully.”
“Yes. Reinhardt, you focus on Noell,” agreed Tanneberger.
“Thank you, sir, and I am awfully sorry if I embarrassed you,” Reinhardt said, standing up and laying it on thick. If he had had his hat with him, he would have twisted it nervously in front of him, he thought. Anything to augment an image of contriteness that Tanneberger would have related to. “I apologize unreservedly. May I be dismissed?”
Tanneberger’s mouth moved, and he flicked a glance at Ganz.
“Very well,” Ganz said.
Reinhardt took the stairs back down as fast as his knee would let him. Back outside, and the street was dotted with people, figures in dark clothes moving left and right, cars, trucks, a horse-drawn wagon, and no sign of the British, no sign of . . . There. Up toward Grunewaldstrasse. That fawn-colored coat across Whelan’s broad back, next to him Collingridge as they walked down the street, the translator a few steps behind, probably heading back to the Kammergericht. Reinhardt kept well back from them, an elderly couple serving as cover while they walked carefully down the splintered pavement, not sure what he was looking for, nor why he was following them. They stopped next to a Jeep parked next to a shiny black car with British plates. Whelan, Collingridge. Two of them. Where was . . . ?
Reinhardt felt someone watching him, and turned quickly, only spotting Markworth as he stepped out of the shadows of the archway that ran along the front of the Magistrates’ Court. Markworth crossed the road slowly, a deliberate rhythm to his steps, as if he were trying to ignore his limp. It was his left leg, Reinhardt saw, that dragged. The two of them stared at each other, both outwardly calm, but Reinhardt felt that crackling energy from Markworth, almost as if it were something personal.
“What are you doing?” Markworth asked in English.
“Why pretend you can’t speak German,” Reinhardt answered back.
Markworth smiled, a crack across the stone of his face, but said nothing.
“Do you really believe your own story?” Reinhardt continued.
“What’s so hard to believe about it?” Markworth answered back.
“Everything.”
“Everything?” Markworth repeated. “What would you prefer? That perhaps Carlsen fell victim to some nefarious plot? Disgruntled Nazis? Perhaps the Soviets? Something nice and political perhaps?”
“I didn’t say that. I just find it hard to believe Carlsen’s and Noell’s deaths are not linked.”
“No? Ask yourself, then. Are Carlsen’s prints in that apartment? Are they on the glasses? Are they on the tap in the kitchen? On the door handle? Anywhere? Well, are they?”
“The pathologist is sure the same man killed them.”
“Or two men trained in the same way.”
Reinhardt floundered a moment. “It still does not make sense,” he managed, finally. “A prostitute. An assailant in a bar. Carlsen dead in a stairwell.”
“You did not know Carlsen. I did. He was my friend. He did stupid things.”
Reinhardt felt he wanted to squirm, feeling the ferocity coiled back inside Markworth that the steady level of his gaze could not hide. “Have you considered that whoever killed Carlsen knew exactly who he was?”
“How so?”
“Carlsen’s body had been stripped of all identification. Whoever did it, did it to delay him being identified.”
“And . . . ?”
“You’re the one who mentioned criminal gangs. Was he investigating them? Was that his job?”
“Now who’s the one complicating things? It’s simplicity, isn’t it? Isn’t that what it often boils down to? A man who realizes he’s killed a British official, wouldn’t he panic? Wouldn’t he strip him of his identification?” Markworth’s German was slow, somewhat ponderous, as if he considered each word before pronouncing it.
“Had Carlsen been reported missing?”
“What?”
“How did you find out so quickly about his death? Don’t tell me the US MPs’ photographs moved that fast.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“And even if they did, what are the odds anyone would recognize Carlsen as British? Was anyone looking for him? Had he been reported missing?” Markworth shook his head, frowning. “He was your friend, you said. Were you looking for him?”
Markworth shook his head, again, moving closer to Reinhardt, the glass chips of his eyes very cold. Reinhardt drew himself in and up, a sudden, reflexive move, as if in the face of sudden danger. “You’re a persistent fucking bull, aren’t you?”