Von Vollmer and Bochmann were silent. “You are correct to castigate us, Inspector,” von Vollmer said, after a moment. “But the solidarity that exists now is . . . not what we knew, you and I, in 1918. It is a solidarity that cannot always call itself what it is. There are those out there who might take this place apart if they knew that veterans were working here.”
“Not just veterans,” said Reinhardt. “Men who actually served together. Who else is here from your command?”
“Seven,” Bochmann answered, quietly. “Six,” he said, correcting himself. “I was thinking of . . . Zuleger.”
“Pilots?” asked Reinhardt.
“One,” Bochmann replied, after a moment. “Zuleger was the second.”
“Names, please.” Bochmann paused, thinking, then wrote, handing the paper across to Reinhardt. He glanced at it, seeing Noell was not on it. “I would like to interview all those from your former command, please, starting now if they’re working today.”
Bochmann nodded. “Inspector. You have not told us how Zuleger was murdered.”
“He was asphyxiated by sand being poured down his throat. Do either of you know why someone would do that to him? Kill him in that way?”
Neither of them had an answer, they just sat there looking blank, perhaps running over images in their mind of what had happened to Zuleger until the door opened, and Weber came back in with the piece of paper that he gave to Reinhardt. Von Vollmer and Bochmann looked at it with some interest, although Reinhardt said nothing about it, and then he realized why Bochmann looked familiar.
“Did either of you know a pilot named Andreas Noell?” Reinhardt asked, on a hunch. Von Vollmer shook his head, then Bochmann, but Reinhardt was sure there was the slightest hesitation in Bochmann’s answer. Reinhardt looked at him, his eyes flat, and then Bochmann nodded, and corrected his answer to “not sure.” Reinhardt laid down a photograph. It was the group photograph, the one from Noell’s album. Von Vollmer rose from behind his desk and came round to look as well.
“There you are,” Reinhardt said, pointing out Bochmann, who craned his head around and smiled, the silt in his eyes clearing a moment. On the photo, Bochmann sat in the middle of the front row, seated, his legs and arms crossed. Bochmann’s mouth tightened, as if around memories that were too much to handle, and he played a finger over the photo.
“That’s Noell, I think. Yes, I think I remember him now.”
“Where’s Zuleger?” Bochmann frowned at him. “Zuleger served in IV./JG56. Is he on this photo?”
Bochmann’s eyes scanned the picture. “That’s him, I think. It’s hard to tell.”
“But that is not a picture of the Night Hawks.”
“No. That was IV./JG56.”
“So you changed units?”
“No, not quite. IV./JG56 was the original unit, but it was retrained and redesignated a night-fighter group in 1943.”
“It became another unit?”
“Yes. The personnel in it at the time mostly remained, as I recall. The pilots all went through extensive retraining. New fighters, new tactics. But not Noell. He had already transferred out. Sometime in early 1943, I think. I’m not sure exactly when, or where, but I think it was to test pilot status.”
“Test pilot?”
“Yes. I don’t know anything about it. But this photo,” said Bochmann, pointing out the group shot, “was of the original flyers, the Group of 1940-41.” There was an element of pride in his voice. “Most of them are dead now,” he mused. “Dead or wounded. Or missing. Shot down. Taken prisoner. Gone. Like Colonel Elbers, there. Shot down over the Channel. We never heard what became of him.”
Von Vollmer harrumphed, as if to cut short any reference to the squadron before he joined it. “And so just why, Inspector, are you asking about former pilots from the Night Hawks, or that we might have served with?”
“It’s because someone’s murdered two of them. Zuleger and Noell. And what links the pair of them is IV./JG56 and III./NJG64. So I ask again, does anything occur to you as to why, or what would link those two men?” Again, they shook their heads. “How about this, then. Would you have any idea what this is?” He spread the apparent manifesto and related documentation he had found in Zuleger’s apartment. “Any idea?”
“That’s political, is what that is,” Weber said, a slight crow in his voice as if he had recognized something before anyone else. Von Vollmer and Bochmann lifted their heads from it, looking at Weber, then at each other. “Political, and illegal,” said Weber unnecessarily, perhaps reading too much into von Vollmer’s and Bochmann’s silence.
“For once, your impetuous young colleague is right, Inspector. It’s some kind of manifesto. I’ve seen similar.”
“You’ve seen such before?” gloated Weber, and there was a light of petty triumph in his eyes, of the kind Reinhardt had seen far too much of these past few years. His temper frayed at Weber’s vehemence, but he admitted it had its uses, watching the effect it had on the other two men. Von Vollmer straightened, and he had none of the disdain in his voice and face as he looked at Weber, then at Reinhardt.
“Such things circulate, you know. But I’ve never seen that.”
“Perhaps we should invite you to Linienstrasse to continue this conversation,” smiled Weber.
“Enough,” said Reinhardt, curtly. Weber flushed, and opened his mouth, but Reinhardt shook his head. “Thank you both for your time,” he said to von Vollmer and Bochmann. “One final question: Did either of you know Zuleger in any capacity other than as a worker and as a former comrade?”
“I did not,” said Bochmann.
“No,” said von Vollmer curtly, the word neatly encapsulating the social distinctions that still ruled him. He might have seen it his duty to provide for those who had relied on him or over whom he had had authority, and thus a sense of responsibility in the way his class might have defined it, but it almost certainly did not extend to mixing with them in social settings.
Bochmann showed Reinhardt and Weber out of the office to an adjacent room, where the six other factory employees who used to be in III./NJG64 were waiting. According to Bochmann’s information, there was a pilot and five who were former ground staff. Zuleger was known to them, and they took his death with varying degrees of shock, exchanging wide-eyed looks among one another, but it was little more than the shock that would cross anyone’s face and mind on hearing someone they knew had died.
“How did he die, again?” they asked.
“Drowned,” answered Weber quickly, a twist of scorn to his face as he looked at Reinhardt.
“Suffocated,” Reinhardt corrected him, watched the other men for a sign, any sign, but could see nothing, see no deeper than the seamed, tired lines of the faces of four ordinary-looking men of middle age.
“Please,” said Bochmann, looking across them, “the owner and myself invite you to help the police in their inquiry.”
“Can you give Inspector Weber and myself some personal details? Anyone who knew Zuleger?”
“I knew him pretty well,” said a man who had a patch over one eye. “Name’s Dorner. We flew together. Same squadron. Until I lost this,” he said, pointing at the patch. “There was nothing wrong with him, if that helps. He was his normal self last week.” The others nodded agreement.
“Anyone know if he had plans for the weekend? A party? Dinner.” Again, a round of negative answers, although Reinhardt sensed a certain shiftiness, and Weber seemed to sense it as well.
“Did anyone know a pilot named Andreas Noell?” One or two nodded, including Dorner. Reinhardt gestured for him to go on.
“I knew him. Not well. We were in the squadron about . . . about a year together.”
“And . . . ?” shot Weber.
“And what?” Dorner shot back. “He was just a normal bloke. I haven’t seen or heard of him since nineteen forty bloody two, when I got this!” he spat, another jerk of his fingers at his eye patch. “I mean, what do you think? That we all of us spend our free time drinking and reminiscing about the old days?”
“‘All’,” Reinhardt asked. “Just how many of you here in the factory are ex–air force?” Reinhardt asked Dorner. The question seemed to leave Dorner short of words, and he looked desperately to Bochmann.
“A large number of the staff has that honor. Von Vollmer takes seriously his duties toward not only his own former men, but those of the same service. He has strong principles of solidarity.”
“How many?” Weber pushed.
“The majority of the workforce,” Bochmann answered.
“We’ve got nowhere to go,” Dorner said. “We can’t work anywhere else. No union will have us.”
Weber’s face seemed to lighten. “How’s this? Veterans congregating together? You know damn well that’s illegal.”
“We stick together,” said another. “We have to.”
The secretary poked her head into the room and beckoned to Bochmann. “You have had a call from your headquarters, Inspector,” he said, glancing at a slip of paper the secretary had handed him. “A Professor Endres has important information for you. He asks can you come to him as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bochmann.” Reinhardt looked at Weber, then back at Bochmann. “I think we are finished, here, in any case.”
“Finished? Reinhardt, there is much more we can inquire into,” protested Weber.
“Finished, Weber,” said Reinhardt, firmly. The other men shuffled their feet, looking interested despite themselves in this show of division, and Reinhardt silently cursed this impetuous officer, this—callow—youth who could not seem to master himself, could not seem to understand the value of a united front.