Then he was gone, a compact man weaving himself into the crowd, leaving Reinhardt behind him on the street, perplexed and wondering, Markworth’s last word in his mind. Bull. Berlin slang for a policeman. Not a word, Reinhardt thought, that a foreigner might pick up easily. And there was something else, maybe something else that Markworth had said, but whatever it was it would not come back to him. Perhaps later, he thought, but whatever further thoughts Reinhardt might have given the matter, the rhythm Tanneberger and Ganz had begun to demand of the detectives engulfed him.
The two of them ordered all officers into the briefing room and laid out the situation, ordering Weber out to question the prostitute, and other pairs of detectives and patrolmen to see if anything could be found out about Carlsen’s mystery man and possible attacker, and to generally start to shake things up. There were mug shots posted on the corkboard at one end of the room, blurred and grainy images of men with flat faces and hard eyes. Mug shots of criminals, gangsters, pimps, real and suspected, all men who fit the description given in Mrs. Gieb’s statement, or who were close enough, or who the police would haul in anyway, given half a chance. Reinhardt was surprised to see one or two faces he recognized from before the war, feeling a sudden disconnect from where he was, back to who he had been. And he again wondered why he seemed to find Noell’s death familiar. What was it about it? Where had he heard of something like it . . . ?
He caught himself from musing overmuch, however, and as Ganz finished reading out the assignments, Reinhardt raised his hand.
“Yes, Reinhardt?” Tanneberger frowned. Heads twisted round on shoulders to look at him, and more than a few grins were cracked. “You wish to form part of this manhunt, Reinhardt? I thought this was beneath you.”
“I never said . . .” he began, but Tanneberger interrupted him.
“You are free to concentrate on following up your leads in the murder of Noell. Report to me regularly, especially should you discover links between the two deaths. However, you will understand if the priorities and resources of this division are focused on Carlsen’s death.”
In other words, he was on his own, he knew, as the briefing ended and officers and detectives streamed out of the room past him. It was no more than he had asked for from Tanneberger and Ganz, because he wanted to stay focused on Noell and had never had any taste for these roughhouse tactics, the broadsword to his rapier. But to have it rammed down his throat in public was a humiliation he did not need, even though he knew they felt compelled to deliver it. Thankfully, there was a keen edge of excitement in the air, in the crude bursts of speech the men used among themselves, otherwise Reinhardt was sure more fun would have been made of him. It was all somehow depressingly familiar, Reinhardt thought, watching the eager stride of the younger officers.
When the room had emptied, he walked up to the corkboard to look more closely at the mug shots. He read the names, recognizing two of them. Both of them had worked for Leadfoot Podolski, one of prewar Berlin’s more notorious gangsters, who Reinhardt had helped arrest. Fischer had been a leg breaker, a man Podolski sent round to storekeepers and bar owners who did not pay their protection money on time. Kappel had been a courier for stolen items, usually small ones, like jewelry and watches. He thought of Podolski, not seeing his photo on the wall and wondering what had become of him, and turned to leave.
Ganz was standing at the briefing room’s door, Weber just behind him.
“Something to add, Reinhardt?”
Reinhardt shook his head. “I remember these two from before the war.”
“And?”
Reinhardt looked at Ganz, remembering. Although both had been violent, Fischer especially, neither had been killers, and although the courier had possessed a certain weasel cunning, neither of them had taken a step without being told when and where to go.
“I don’t see either of them beating a man to death like someone did to Carlsen. They weren’t like that then. And they were neither of them into pimping.”
“Wars change people, don’t they?”
Reinhardt nodded, conceding the point.
“So that’s all?” asked Ganz.
“That’s all.” Except it was not, but it was only his intuition that told him Carlsen’s and Noell’s murders were linked.
“Then I haven’t much use for you. Do what you want with Noell.”
Ganz’s eyes seemed to measure Reinhardt to some cut and cloth that only he knew of, and then he was gone. Weber lingered a moment, a grin sparking across his face before he, too, left.