He stayed like that, like a wheel running itself down, until something, a flicker of light, perhaps, a word spoken that slipped out of the crowd into his ear, made him lift his head and realize he could swing past the address that Leena had given him for Kausch before going to the morgue. He switched trains at Pulitzerstrasse, catching another one toward Wedding Station in the French sector, where he made his way by memory and directions from passersby to Plantagen Strasse, which ran along what used to be, he remembered, an elegant, shaded cemetery.
His memory of the layout of the place served, but of the cemetery not much remained except a swath of ground rutted by the tilt of shattered tombstones and the stumps of trees. Remembering what Leena had said, he watched the street from the far side of the cemetery, behind the chipped façade of an old tomb, listening to the quiet. There were three buildings on the street, all apartment blocks, all with façades scored and scorched by fire. A few windows reflected the sky, but most were covered with wood or cardboard. He scanned along the rooftops, but could not see any movement, although there were enough dark holes in the tiled roofs where roofs still existed, or enough hiding places in the saw-backed jumble of ruins where there were none, to hide an army of spotters.
“It’s the middle one.”
Reinhardt jumped, turning to see two boys crouching down behind a grave. They grinned at him, clean flashes of teeth amid the grime of their faces, clearly pleased at having snuck up on him.
“You’ll give someone a heart attack doing that,” Reinhardt grunted, lightening his words with a rueful shake of his head and smile.
“Leena said to watch for you,” one of them said. He pointed. “The middle one. And there’s someone watching the road from the roof, up there.”
Reinhardt nodded. He shook out a few Luckies and left them on the tomb. There was no door at the entrance to Kausch’s block and no superintendent. Although the rooms for one were there, they were abandoned, the angles of floors, walls, and corners softened with rubbish. There were letterboxes by the stairs, but Kausch’s name was not on them. Nor was there a Kessel. The whole building felt abandoned, no sounds, no smells beyond a cold scent of waste and neglect. But at the first floor, an old lady answered his knock and gestured at him with two fingers pointing upward when he asked for Kausch. She said nothing, but her rheumy eyes blinked quickly at him as she shut the door.
On the second floor, only one apartment had a door. He knocked, waited, knocked again, calling “police.” He leaned close to the door, listening to the kind of silence that wrapped itself around those who wished not to move. The silence that accompanied a policeman’s knock at the door. He knocked again, louder, calling again, hearing finally a shuffle of feet from inside. The door cracked open to a man’s face, clean-shaven, with heavy-lidded eyes.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Kessel.”
The man shook his head. “He’s not here.”
“How about Kausch.” The man blinked. “Are you Mr. Kausch? I am Inspector Reinhardt, with the Kripo. May I come in?”
The man moved his mouth, as if around a dry tongue. “Why?” he managed, after a moment. “What is the matter?”
“May I come in, please? It would be easier to talk. Are you Mr. Kausch?”
The man nodded after a moment. “Yes. But I’m sick, can’t you see?” Kausch said, rucking the blanket he wore higher up around his shoulders. The man’s fingers were long, the fingernails filed and clean, and his hair was streaked with gray about his ears. “What do you want?”
“Do you know a man named Andreas Noell?”
Kausch coughed, hunching further into the blanket. A cold wind feathered the hair on Reinhardt’s head, blowing from within Kausch’s apartment, bringing with it the musty odor of damp, of unwashed clothes, of badly cooked food. But from Kausch came a faint, but distinct, odor of soap.
“I did, yes,” Kausch coughed again.
“You did? You knew him from where?”
“I knew him from before.”
“From before . . . ?” Reinhardt said, beneath a smooth brow, keeping his eyes level on Kausch.
“Before. We were in the same apartment before.”
“You? Or Mr. Kessel?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Me.”
“Kausch, then. So is there a Kessel?”
“No. Yes.”
“But he’s not here. So you said. Where did you know Noell from then?”
“In Neukölln.”
“You lived in the same apartment?”
“Yes. No. I lived there. He needed a place. After the war. We discussed it, I left him the apartment to come here.”
“Why? Why would you do that for Noell? Did you know him well?”
“Not very well, no.”
“Have you heard from him lately?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
Kausch shrugged. “A few months ago, perhaps.”
“You weren’t friends.” Kausch shook his head, a slight twist to his mouth.
“So why the arrangement with the other apartment? So far as I can see, unpleasant as it was, this is worse.” Reinhardt put levity into his voice he did not feel, all the while watching Kausch’s eyes, and listening as hard as he could for sound.
“My mother, Inspector. She was ill, and I needed to look after her.”
“What was wrong with her?”
Kausch ducked his mouth in the blanket to cough. In the hallway behind Kausch, Reinhardt saw several pairs of shoes. He looked at them, then back at Kausch, eyebrows raised for Kausch’s answer.
“Tuberculosis.”
“Is she here?”
“My mother? No.”
“And now?”
“Now what?” There was a sudden parade-ground snap to Kausch’s voice.
“Your mother? How is she?”
“Oh. I am afraid she passed away. Over the winter.”
“I am sorry to hear it. It wasn’t anything to do with Poles?”
“With what?”
“Poles. You weren’t worried about Poles?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Inspector.”
“When did you last see Noell, did you say?”
“I didn’t. But it was months ago.”
“You weren’t close.” Kausch shook his head. “Weren’t friends? May I come in?” Reinhardt asked, again.
Kausch’s mouth moved, and he turned his head to dry cough, dragging it up and out of his mouth. There were small flecks of white in the fold beneath his ear.
Kausch coughed. “Inspector. I am very ill, and I have answered your questions. If there is nothing else . . . ?” He made to shut the door, but Reinhardt put a hand against it.
“You haven’t asked me.”
“Asked you what?”
“Why I’m asking about Noell.” Kausch blinked. “But maybe Ochs told you he’d been murdered when you went to see him yesterday.” Kausch blinked again. “Why did you go? Had you heard something?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Inspector.”
“Did you serve in Poland?” Reinhardt watched Kausch closely, but saw nothing in the man’s eyes, or in his face. “This place smells like a barracks. Damp towels, soup, and socks. Not a smell I care to remember. I really don’t care who is living in there with you, or what kind of scam you may be playing. Ration cards? Benefits? Something more serious, given the man you have up on the roof? So long as it and you and they had nothing to do with Noell’s murder, I am not interested. But I will be back, Mr. Kausch.”