“Thank you, oh, thank you,” the baker said effusively. His hands were shaking and tears dripped into the creases around his mouth. “God bless you, sir.”
“Shhhhh,” Kohl said, irritated at the indiscreet gratitude. “Now get back into your store.”
“Yes, sir. A loaf of bread for you? Some strudel?”
“No, no. Now, your store.”
The man hurried back inside.
As they walked to their car Janssen asked, “His name was not Heydrich? It was Rosenbaum?”
“Regarding this matter, Janssen, it is better for you not to inquire. It will not help you become a better inspector.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man nodded in a knowing way.
“Now,” Kohl continued, “we know that our suspect got out of a taxi there and sat in the square before he went on his mission here, whatever that might have been. Let’s ask the benchwarmers if they saw anything.”
They had no luck with this crowd, many of whom were, as Kohl had explained to Janssen, not the least sympathetic to the Party or police. No luck, that is, until they came to one man sitting in the shadow of the bronze Leader. Kohl looked him over and smelled soldier – either regular army or Free Corps, the informal militia that was formed after the War.
He nodded energetically when Kohl asked about the suspect. “Ach, yes, yes, I know who you mean.”
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am Helmut Gershner, former corporal in Kaiser Wilhelm’s army.”
“And what can you tell us, Corporal?”
“I was speaking to this man not forty-five minutes ago. He fit your description.”
Kohl felt his heart pound quickly. “Is he still around here, do you know?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
“Well, tell us about him.”
“Yes, Inspector. We were speaking of the War. At first I thought we were comrades but then I sensed something was odd.”
“What was that, sir?”
“He spoke of the battle of St. Mihiel. And yet he was not troubled.”
“Troubled?”
The man shook his head. “We lost fifteen thousand captured at that battle and many, many dead. To me it was the black-letter day for my unit, Detachment C. Such a tragedy! The Americans and the French pushed us back to the Hindenburg Line. He knew much of the fighting, it seemed. I suspect he was there. But the battle was not a horror to him. I could see in his eyes he found those terrible days as nothing. And” – the man’s eyes flared in indignation – “he would not share my flask in honor of the dead. I don’t know why you are looking for him but this reaction alone made me suspicious. I suspect that he was a deserter. Or a coward. Perhaps he was even a backstabber.”
Or perhaps, Kohl thought wryly, he was the enemy. The inspector asked, “Did he say anything of his business here? Or anywhere?”
“No, sir, he did not. We spoke for only a few moments.”
“Was he alone?”
“I think not. He seemed to join another man, somewhat smaller than he. But I didn’t see clearly. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention, sir.”
“You’re doing fine, soldier,” Janssen said. To Kohl, the inspector candidate offered, “Perhaps that man we saw in the courtyard was his colleague. A dark suit, smaller.”
Kohl nodded. “Possibly. One of the companions at the Summer Garden.” He asked the veteran, “What was his age, the larger man?”
“About forty, plus a year or two. The same as myself.”
“And you got a good look at him?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I was as close to him as I am to you right now. I can describe him perfectly.”
Greet God, Kohl thought; the plague of blindness is over. He glanced up the street, looking for someone he’d observed on their search of the area a half hour earlier. He took the veteran by the arm and, holding up one hand to stop traffic, led the limping man across the street.
“Sir,” he said to a vendor in a paint-stained smock, sitting beside a cheap pushcart displaying pictures. The street artist looked up from a floral still life he was painting. He set down his brush and rose in alarm when he saw Kohl’s identification card.
“I am sorry, Inspector. I promise you I have tried many times to obtain a permit but-”
Kohl snapped, “Can you use a pencil or only paints?”
“I-”
“Pencil! Can you use one?”
“Yes, sir. I often began with a pencil to do the preliminary sketch and then I-”
“Yes, yes, fine. Now, I have a job for you.” Kohl deposited the limping corporal in the shabby canvas chair and shoved a pad of paper toward the artist.
“You wish me to do a drawing of this man?” the vendor asked, game but confused.
“No, I wish you to do a drawing of the man this man is about to describe.”
Chapter Fifteen
The taxi sped past a large hotel, from which fluttered black-white-and-red Nazi flags.
“Ach, that’s the Metropol,” the driver said. “You know who is there presently? The great actress and singer Lillian Harvey! I saw her myself. You must enjoy her musicals.”
“She’s good.” Paul had no idea who the woman was.
“She is making a film just now in Babelsberg for UFA Studios. I would love to have her as a fare but, of course, she has a limousine.”
Paul glanced absently at the posh hotel – just the sort of place where a movie starlet would stay. Then the Opel turned north, and abruptly the neighborhood changed, growing seamier by the block. Five minutes later Paul told the driver, “Please, here will do.”
The man dropped him at the curb and, alert to the risks of taxis now, Paul waited until the vehicle had disappeared in traffic before walking two blocks to Dragoner Street then continuing to the Aryan Café.
Inside he didn’t have to search hard for Otto Webber. The German was sitting at a table in the front bar, arguing with a man in a dirty light blue suit and a flat-topped straw boater hat. Webber glanced up and beamed a great smile toward Paul then quickly dismissed his companion.
“Come here, come here, Mr. John Dillinger! How are you, my friend?” Webber rose to embrace him.
They sat. Before Paul could even unbutton his jacket, Liesl, the attractive young waitress who’d served them earlier, made a beeline for him. “Ach, you’re back,” she announced, resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard. “You could not resist me! I knew it! What will it be now?”
“Pschorr for me,” Paul said. “For him a Berlin beer.”
Her fingers brushed the back of his neck as she stepped away.
Webber’s eyes followed Liesl. “It seems that you have yourself a special friend. And what does bring you back? The allure of Liesl? Or have you been beating up more dung-shirts and need my help?”
“I thought we might be able to do some business, after all.”
“Ach, your words are like Mozart’s music to me. I knew you were a sharp one.”
Liesl brought the beers immediately. Paul noted that at least two customers who’d ordered earlier had not been served. She wrinkled her face, looking around the bar. “I must work now. Otherwise I would sit and join you and let you buy me schnapps.” Resentfully she strode off.
Webber slammed his glass into Paul’s. “Thank you for this.” He nodded after the man in the baby-blue suit, who was now at the bar. “Such problems I have. You wouldn’t believe them. Hitler announced a new car at the Berlin Auto Show last year. Better than the Audi, cheaper than the DKW. The Folks-Wagon, it is to be called. A car for everybody. You can pay by installments then pick it up when you’ve paid in full. Not a bad idea. The company can make use of the money and they still keep the car in case you don’t complete the payments. Is that not brilliant?”
Paul nodded.
“Ach, I was lucky enough to find thousands of tires.”
“Find?”
Webber shrugged. “And now I learn that the damn engineers have changed the wheel size of the piss-ant little car. My inventory is useless.”
“How much did you lose?”
Webber regarded the foam in his beer. “I haven’t actually lost money. But I will not make money. That is just as bad. Automobiles are one thing this country’s done well. The Little Man’s rebuilt all the roads. But we have a joke: You can travel anywhere in the country in great speed and comfort. But why would you want to? All you find at the other end of the road are more National Socialists.” He roared with laughter.