They came for him later, as the day was drawing to a close, as he was finishing drawing up a list of people for Mrs. Dommes and her assistants to start trying to contact, using the information he had gleaned from his day in the WASt. Like with the call to Lassen in the Hamburg Kripo, Reinhardt found the endeavor daunting in the extreme. Trying to track down individual men across postwar Germany made looking for a needle in a haystack easy, but Dommes shrugged off the difficulties.
“Four names, then, Inspector. Hauck, Osterkamp, Prellberg, and Thurner. In Aachen, Stuttgart, Braunschweig, and Stettin. That last one will be hardest, Inspector,” she said, with a firm slant to her mouth. “All the other locations are in Western Germany, in the Allied occupation zones. But Stettin is in Poland now. I don’t know how we’ll find out any information on Mr. Thurner there. If he indeed survived the war, it’s unlikely he would have returned. He could be anywhere.”
Reinhardt nodded, going back over his notes. “Their fighter squadron surrendered at Bremen. Perhaps we could make inquiries there. In any case, do what you can, Mrs. Dommes, perhaps starting with the others first. I will see if I can find some other way to locate him.”
“Very well,” she said, looking at the page of handwritten notes as if she expected the answers to leap off the page at her. “I shall proceed as we discussed. Calls to the central police registries in those cities with requests for information on these ex-pilots, and for checks to be made on them. Follow-up calls as necessary.”
She paused, and he glanced at her, but she was not looking at him. Ganz was standing in the door, his face grim. He pointed a finger at Reinhardt, then crooked it.
“You. Come with me.”
Dommes gasped at Ganz’s display of manners, or the lack thereof, but Reinhardt laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Thank you, Mrs. Dommes, you have been most helpful as usual. Let me know what you find out.”
“But of course, Inspector,” she said, directing a withering glare at Ganz.
Reinhardt followed Ganz into Neumann’s office. Tanneberger, Whelan, and Markworth were waiting there, with their translator sitting all prim and proper, and the atmosphere was thick. Collingridge was not there, but Bliemeister was, the assistant chief for the American sector in a chair to one side of Neumann’s desk. Reinhardt was not offered a seat, and he flushed a moment at the image he suddenly had of a schoolboy hauled in front of the headmaster. Ganz handed him a photograph. It was a shot of a man with the back of his skull caved in. Ganz handed him other photos like a card dealer in a game, one after the other. All shots of the same man, shots of the injuries he had sustained, what looked like welts on his arms, thighs, and across his back.
“Who is that?” Reinhardt asked.
“That’s Stresemann.” The translator’s words floated softly behind Ganz’s.
“He looks dead.”
“He is. He was found in Neukölln.”
“Stresemann was beaten to death.” It was Markworth who spoke. Reinhardt said nothing, knowing the value of silence in such situations. “Sometime on Tuesday, we think. He was beaten to death with a long, narrow object.” He waited, but still Reinhardt said nothing. “He was beaten to death with something like a police truncheon.” Markworth held Reinhardt’s eyes. “Like a baton.”
“Where were you Tuesday night?”
“At home,” Reinhardt replied to Ganz. He looked at the others. At Whelan, at Markworth, at Neumann and Tanneberger. Whelan and Neumann looked uncomfortable, like men out of their depth. Markworth looked imperturbable, inscrutable even. Sitting quietly in his corner, Bliemeister said nothing.
“Witnesses?”
“My landlady.” Ganz raised his eyebrows. “And an officer of Soviet state security. He came to the house.”
“You have such a baton, do you not, Reinhardt?” Markworth asked.
“I lost it.”
Markworth said nothing. No one said anything, only the translator’s voice fluttering gently, then fading away.
“When did you lose it?” Ganz asked.
“Two days ago.”
“Two days ago?”
Reinhardt clenched his teeth, holding his lips tight against them. “When I went into the Soviet sector the other day, I was attacked by Fischer. I lost it then.”
“I see,” said Ganz, as if he saw anything but. “And were there any witnesses?” Reinhardt shook his head. “Did you report the baton lost?” Reinhardt only shook his head, again.
“A trip into the Soviet sector. An alleged attack. A contact from a known member of Soviet state security.” Markworth’s voice was low and level, but each word struck home as if aimed.
“Given current relations, and given what we told you of Carlsen’s work on the Control Council, we find this very concerning,” said Whelan.
“Given Soviet infiltration of the police and the overwhelming Communist sympathies of its officers, we find it more concerning still,” said Markworth bluntly. Reinhardt watched Whelan as he said it. It was clear that the old Englishman had a rather different sense of how to deliver unpleasant news, but he made no effort to cushion Markworth’s words. If they were not playing “good cop, bad cop,” Reinhardt did not know what their game was.
“Gentlemen, please,” said Neumann, a worried slant to his words and a glance at Bliemeister. “All this talk of influence and infiltration is unnecessary.”
“I think not” was Markworth’s candid response, almost an interruption. “Police command is in Mitte, in the Soviet sector. The chief is a Soviet creature to his fingernails, or do I wrong him? Police officers in the Soviet sector cannot travel to the Western ones and must report any contact with their colleagues here or with Allied officers. Police officers have done little to protect the meetings or premises of non-Communist political parties across the city, especially in East Berlin. Police officers have, conversely, provided protection to Socialist Unity Party meetings,” Markworth continued, referring to the new party the Soviets had created from a merger between the Communists and Social Democrats. “Police officers are overwhelmingly represented in the Party-dominated trade union. Soldiers of the Western Allied nations have at times been harassed by Berlin police officers. Please, correct me if I am wrong? No? Then perhaps you will understand our concern that a Soviet state security officer has taken it upon himself to show an interest into a murder investigation involving a British agent.”
None of what Markworth said was wrong, Reinhardt knew, but it was more the way he said it. His words had an awful weight to them, like a stone rolling downhill, and for a second he shivered as he remembered his dream, that nightmare of a figure of stones broaching the eldritch waters of a blackened lake . . .
“Moreover,” Whelan continued, “you will understand our concern that, having asked for efficiency and a measure of discretion, what we get is expediency and a shambles of an investigation in which the main suspect is dead and the main witness is missing.”
“What did this Soviet officer want, Reinhardt?” asked Tanneberger.
“He wanted to know about my investigation into the murder of Noell.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“What I told you and the councilor. Just the facts.”
“This Russian asked about Noell?” asked Whelan. The big Englishman leaned forward, but Markworth stayed quite still. “He was more interested in Noell?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you?”
“Reinhardt!” snapped Tanneberger, as Neumann’s face tightened up.
“He told me Carlsen was half-German.” The Germans in the room stirred and stilled. “That he was a particular kind of agent.” The translator’s voice hesitated, and she looked to the Englishmen as if for guidance, but if guidance she sought, there was none forthcoming.
“Anything else you would like to tell us?” Markworth’s eyes were stone.
“He told me our relationship is a one-way affair.”
“You will appreciate that this puts you in a difficult position, Reinhardt,” Whelan said, his words labored, as if he regretted being the bearer of bad news, or bad news so plainly spoken. The English, Reinhardt thought. They so loved their equivocations . . .
“No. I don’t see that,” Reinhardt said, his words short and sharp. “What evidence connects me, the baton I lost, and that body?”
“The wounds on Stresemann’s body are particular,” said Markworth. “Not just strike wounds from a baton-type object. There are characteristics to the wounds. Characteristics that would indicate he was struck by an extendable baton. Like yours.”
“That’s supposition. And I didn’t have the only extendable baton in Berlin.”
“They’re rare enough. And you were in Neukölln on Monday, weren’t you?” Markworth asked. The room went chill again. Reinhardt said nothing. “And let’s not forget the Russian,” Markworth said, behind a slow blink of those marble eyes.
“Any member of the occupying forces may contact a member of the police, Mr. Markworth,” Neumann said, primly. “Like now. Should that contact become an occasion to pass on instructions, or become coercive, that would, of course, change the nature of the contact and become a cause for concern.” Markworth swiveled his dead eyes on Neumann, and the chief seemed to clam up.
“Has Professor Endres done an autopsy of Stresemann, sir?” Reinhardt asked Ganz, strangely impelled to take the pressure off Neumann. “Has Berthold seen the body?”
“No,” Ganz answered. “Nothing connects you definitively, Reinhardt. For now. But you will appreciate if we pay a little closer attention to what you are doing. Starting with a daily report, to me.”
“It means your wings are being clipped, Reinhardt.” Markworth’s smile was tight, and there was a tinge to it. A rueful quality, perhaps . . . ? Reinhardt could not be sure he had seen it at all.
“Especially as we’ve received a complaint against you.” This from Whelan. The Englishman’s face was taut. “It seems you have been making unsubstantiated accusations against certain individuals.”
“Can you tell us who made such a complaint?” Bliemeister asked, suddenly and solicitously.
“I’m afraid I cannot,” Whelan replied ponderously, shaking his head enough to set his heavy jowls waggling. “Confidentiality. You know how it is.”
Markworth held Reinhardt’s eyes, and he fancied something glittered in them. A challenge perhaps. A call to provocation.
“Mr. von Vollmer, from whom I believe this complaint has come, is exaggerating certain things,” Reinhardt said. “Nevertheless, I maintain that he and his business have come up several times in my investigation, and will remain part of it for as long as I am permitted to carry it out,” finished Reinhardt, looking first to Bliemeister, then to Neumann, and, finally, back to Markworth. Challenge accepted, he thought.
“Von Vollmer’s in trouble with the Soviets,” said Markworth, the slightest of mocking twists to his lips, but whether the gesture was meant for Reinhardt or Whelan was not clear. “One of his shipments was stopped in the Soviet Zone on its way west. It’s been ‘lost.’ He’s upset. He thinks he’s being hassled because of you.”
“I would like the inspector removed from the Carlsen case,” said Whelan.
“He’s not on the Carlsen case,” said Ganz. Whelan blinked furiously, like a bull brought to bay by some unforeseen obstacle. “Are you saying the two cases are connected?” Ganz tilted his head to one side, and for the first time since he had known him, Reinhardt felt a surge of gratitude for the detective.
“I believe my colleague misspoke,” said Markworth.
“That’s quite a misstatement to make, Mr. Markworth.” Neumann frowned at Ganz, as if surprised to hear such a challenging note.
“I still would like him off the case. Of all the cases that touch upon our affairs,” said Whelan. He sounded stuck, as if mired in something. Neumann looked at Ganz, as if for help, but if help he found, it was not quite what he was looking for. Ganz gave nothing away, sitting heavily in his chair.
“What about you, Assistant Chief?” Markworth asked, looking at Bliemeister. Reinhardt wondered if they were playing a game with Bliemeister, if they had brought him along to add weight to their demands. He was, after all, an appointee of the Allies. He was “theirs,” as Skokov would have said.
“I understand your concerns, gentlemen,” Bliemeister said, finally. “However, as you know, my position does not allow me to interfere in operational matters. Concerning the inquiries into the murders of Noell and Zuleger, and matters pertaining thereto, I cannot in good conscience advise Chief Neumann to withdraw one of his officers from an investigation, given the resources at his disposal.” Reinhardt listened with a grudging measure of respect as Bliemeister droned on. Prevaricating. Tying things up with process and qualifications.
“With all due respect for our working relations and the priority we accord your needs,” Bliemeister continued, somewhat torturously, “I feel that Inspector Reinhardt is qualified to remain in the lead on the inquiries into the deaths of Noell and Zuleger, under the close supervision of Chief Inspector Ganz. I take the breach in protocol that led to his not reporting a contact by a Soviet state security officer seriously, and should new elements come to light regarding his conduct in this case, I shall have no hesitation in suggesting to Chief Neumann, and to Police President Margraff, to review his status as an investigating officer, and indeed, as a member of this police force.” Bliemeister spoke hesitantly, as if testing the ground beneath each word, and he seemed relieved to have reached the end of what he wanted to say without being interrupted.
“Very well,” said Whelan. “However, rest assured that the British authorities will be paying close attention to this as well from now on. I must express our disappointment into the current state of affairs into the inquiries into Carlsen’s murder.”
“Your concern is noted, Mr. Whelan,” Bliemeister said smoothly, as if on firmer ground. He flicked a glance at Ganz, nodding, as if to hand the conversation back.
“I should like for our services to have a look at Stresemann’s body, so as to complete our inquiries,” said Ganz.
“Of course. See to it, James,” Whelan said, in an aside to Markworth, who gave little sign he had heard him.
The meeting broke up, the British taking their leave and Tanneberger escorting them out. Markworth’s eyes lingered on Reinhardt, their flat, marble sheen giving little away. Ganz indicated to Reinhardt he could leave as well, and he returned weak-kneed to his desk, unsure what had just happened. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn, drinking it in a patch of sunlight, before realizing he was not alone, and that a silence had fallen over the squad room.
“Deftly played, Reinhardt,” Markworth congratulated him. The British officer was standing by his desk. It took a moment for Reinhardt to realize Markworth had spoken to him in English, as if on purpose, as if he sought to widen the wedge that already existed between Reinhardt and the other officers. In a corner, Weber sat with Schmidt and Frohnau, watching closely. Reinhardt felt a twist of anger, a sudden uncoiling that came from within, and he knew that the darker side of him had turned over, like something shifting uneasily in its rest, deep inside.
“You seem to think I’m someone I’m not.”
“And what’s that?”
“A player of games. I’m nothing like that.”
“Everyone plays, Reinhardt.”
“Tell me about Carlsen. Tell me more about him than he was just your friend.”
“That’s not enough?”
“Tell me what he was doing in the WASt.”
Markworth blinked, shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
“I found his name in the WASt’s records.”
“You were in the WASt?”
“Skokov arranged it.”
Markworth’s face suddenly cracked into a smile. It changed him, made him suddenly someone else. “Bravo, Reinhardt, bravo!” he said. “But I still don’t understand about Carlsen.”
“He was looking at the same things I was. He was making links with Noell and the other murders. Are you still insisting Carlsen’s death was not linked to the others?”
“I . . . I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Markworth seemed surprised, and Reinhardt found the man’s surprise perturbing. Markworth had seemed implacable, a solid presence. He reminded Reinhardt so much of some of the Feldjäegers he had served with. To see him rattled was somehow wrong.
“Was it true what the Russian told me? He was a German?”
Markworth nodded.
“Why would someone want him dead?”
The Englishman’s eyes went flat. But after a moment, life seemed to flow up from somewhere within them, their marble glaze taking on a sheen of warmth. “Just being someone’s friend can sometimes mean a great deal, Reinhardt. I’m guessing someone like you should know that. Let’s just say, he and I went through a lot together. But we differed on one thing. He had hope for Germany. He had hope for Germans. I did not. And I still don’t.”