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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blind Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
First published as Out of Shot under A. C. Koning. Berlin, 1933. The Nazi regime is gaining devastating power as Hitler is appointed Chancellor and stark oppression begins to unfold in Germany, blind war veteran Frederick Rowlands takes on the most challenging investigation of his life . A glamorous film star has been murdered and the menacing political undercurrents drag Rowlands into the heart of the German film industry. Rowlands discovers that he is closer to the action than he originally thought as his young nephew, Billy, was the last one to see the movie star alive. As the violence in Berlin escalates, Rowlands must race to find Billy before someone else does. Someone desperate to conceal the identity of the killer.
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Seitenzahl: 515
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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MURDER IN BERLIN
CHRISTINA KONING
In memory of my grandmother, Annie Sheila Thompson
(1888 – 1972)
Contents
Chapter One
The tram which had brought them from Zoo Station stopped at Potsdamerplatz; as they got off, there came a roar, which seemed to split the night. To Frederick Rowlands, who had just set foot in the city, it seemed to come from all sides at once. It made him think of a football match he’d attended before the war: Arsenal versus Tottenham Hotspur. Three minutes before the end, Arsenal had scored the winning goal, and the sound its supporters made was like the one he’d just heard. A hoarse yell of triumph. ‘You couldn’t have picked a worse time to arrive,’ muttered his companion. ‘They’re out in force tonight. Well, nothing for it.’ Rowlands felt his arm firmly grasped. ‘Stick close to me. If anyone speaks to you, just shake your head. You’re deaf and dumb, all right? They don’t like foreigners.’
‘All right. But …’
‘I said, can it!’ hissed the other. ‘Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.’ With which Rowlands had to be content. What, after all, was he going to do? Alone in the middle of a strange city, with a fair, but sadly rusty knowledge of the language, and none of the familiar clues of smell, sound and visual memory to assist him, he was more at sea than he’d been in fifteen years. Because it had been a little over fifteen years ago that a burst of shrapnel had taken away all but a fraction of his sight. Since that day in 1917, he’d had to make his way through the world relying on his wits and his other senses. It wasn’t true that blind men had better hearing – they made better use of it, that’s all.
Just now, it was being tested to the limit, with sounds coming from all directions: shouts, screams, whistles, and over it all, the relentless beating of drums, like the pulsing of a monstrous heartbeat. ‘Quick!’ said the youth, who had introduced himself a bare half-hour before as Joachim Metzner. ‘This way. If we’re lucky, we might just make it before they get here.’
Still holding Rowlands by the arm, he began to push his way through the crowd which filled the square, and which seemed to be moving very slowly in the direction in which they themselves were going. It was bitterly cold; a few flakes of snow drifted on the icy wind, which seemed to penetrate to Rowlands’ very bones. His progress was made slower still, because he was encumbered with a suitcase; he silently blessed Edith for having made him wear his heaviest coat. ‘And don’t forget your hat,’ she’d added, knowing his preference for going bare-headed. ‘It’s Germany, in winter. You can be sure it’ll be colder than it is here.’ Well, she was certainly right about that, thought Rowlands as, guided by his impatient young friend, he shouldered his way through the press of bodies. They reached the edge of the square at last. ‘We’ll go this way,’ said Metzner. ‘If we can get across Wilhelmstrasse, we can pick up a tram to the Alex. That is, if we can get across.’
From up ahead, the sound of drumming grew louder.
‘Who are all these people?’ Rowlands ventured to ask since the crowd had thinned out a little.
‘SA,’ was the curt reply. ‘Celebrating their great victory.’ It was said with such withering sarcasm that Rowlands refrained from asking for further explication in case the young German’s temper got the better of him. In any case he – Rowlands – now knew all he needed to know. Hadn’t the London papers been full of speculation as to what the outcome of these elections could mean for Germany, and for the rest of Europe? They emerged into what Rowlands guessed, from the sheer volume of noise arising from it, must be a major thoroughfare. Here, the crowd was even thicker; it seemed to have come to a halt. ‘Scheisse!’ muttered the lad. ‘We’re too late.’
Moments later, there came the sound of marching feet – a sound forever associated, in Rowlands’ mind with his army days – and the mass of people surged forwards. Hemmed in, as he was, by solid bodies, he had little alternative but to do the same. From somewhere near at hand, a woman cried out in a shrill, excited voice – her cry taken up and repeated by others as the parade went past. Drums. Marching feet. Shouted orders. And, over it all, a sulphurous smell, emanating from the burning torches carried by those at the front of the parade. These cast their smoke into the bitter air, stinging the eyes and filling the nostrils with the stink of the inferno. Other smells, of body odour, and the meaty breath of a man standing next to Rowlands, mingled with this smoky vapour, to claustrophobic effect. He was uncomfortably aware, as he stood there, of the proximity of others, and of the impossibility of escaping from that proximity.
At the head of the procession, someone began to sing in a clear tenor voice. Others took up the refrain, which sounded like a marching tune, although not one with which Rowlands was familiar. Soon it was being roared out by a hundred voices: more.
Die Fahne hoch! Die Reihen fest geschlossen!
SA marschiert mit ruhig festem Schritt.
It seemed an age until the parade had gone past, but it was probably no more than ten minutes, Rowlands guessed. The new regime had lost no time, it seemed, in proclaiming its victory. ‘They’ll go on like this all night,’ muttered Metzner in his ear. ‘Let’s get out of here while we can.’ Once again, Rowlands found himself being half-dragged through a gap in the crowd, his progress arrested by occasional collisions with the overcoated forms of various members of the local populace, and by one not wearing a coat, but shirtsleeves and a Sam Browne belt. The man growled something at him, to which – mindful of Metzner’s warning – he did not respond. ‘Taub und dumm,’ shouted his companion, by way of explanation, to which the SA man responded with a coarse laugh, and a word whose vulgarity was evident from the guffaws of those around.
Fortunately, this exercise of wit seemed to satisfy him, or perhaps he was impatient to join his comrades at the tail end of the procession, for after giving vent to another oath, he strode off. ‘Schwein!’ said Metzner, under his breath. ‘Come, we must go this way. Give me that.’ It was Rowlands’ suitcase he meant; for a moment, the two of them engaged in a friendly tussle, which the younger man won. ‘I do not want you to think that all Germans lack manners,’ he said, in English.
‘Of course not,’ smiled Rowlands. ‘Your English is very good,’ he added.
‘I studied English two years in school,’ was the reply.
‘Ah, that explains it!’ said Rowlands politely; then, as it seemed that the embargo on conversation was at an end, ‘Tell me, is there any news?’ Before the other could reply, there came the sound of running feet, and a gang of youths – four or five of them, at a guess – came tearing around the corner of the next street. A stifled exclamation came from Rowlands’ companion as, dropping the suitcase with a thump, he half-pulled, half-shoved the older man towards the shelter of a shop doorway.
But it was too late: the gang was upon them. One of them yelled a filthy name, eliciting hoots of derisive laughter from the rest. Metzner’s reply was evidently no less abusive, for the other – the gang leader, Rowlands guessed – flew at him, raining blows. As if waiting for just this signal, the others moved in. Kicks and punches were traded, with Metzner initially getting the worst of it. With only the sound of the conflict to guide him, Rowlands’ own contribution to the fracas was necessarily limited. He managed to bang two heads together, and dragged one of the assailants off his intended victim by the scruff of the neck. They were little more than children, he realised, an impression confirmed by Metzner afterwards. ‘HJ,’ he said. ‘Just kids, you know. But there were more of them. If they had been SA, we would be in a much worse state.’
Perhaps realising that, despite their superior numbers, they had underestimated the resilience of the foe, the juvenile thugs soon tired of their sport, and ran off, catcalling. ‘Are you all right?’ said Rowlands, dusting himself down. Beyond a bruised shin, where a kick had caught him, he’d sustained no injury; he had a feeling that the same could not be said of Joachim Metzner.
‘I’m fine,’ said the latter. ‘Do you have a handkerchief, perhaps? My nose bleeds a little.’ Rowlands duly supplied the article. ‘Thanks.’ The young man attended briefly to his injuries. ‘No, if I am sorry for what happened just now, it is because it will have given you such a poor impression of our city.’ With a little grunt of effort, betraying bruised ribs, he bent to pick something up from the ground. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Your hat, I think.’
‘Thanks.’ Rowlands put it back on.
‘It is I who must thank you,’ said the other, with a shaky laugh.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Rowlands.
They reached the tram stop without further incident, and joined a straggling queue of people heading for the eastern part of the city: those who’d finished work and were in no hurry to join the public festivities, it seemed. By contrast with the noisily ebullient crowd they’d encountered in Wilhelmstrasse, these were a silent crew. Only a pair of drunks, weaving past on their way to or from the celebrations, disrupted an otherwise sombre mood. At last, with a wild clattering of the bell, the tram appeared. The queue surged forwards; Rowlands, caught up in its momentum, felt himself shoved from all sides. ‘This way!’ hissed Metzner, propelling him unceremoniously up the steps of the first car. A fierce altercation then arose with the driver of the tram, which was only resolved after much shouting on both sides.
‘He refused at first to take me because he said I had been fighting,’ said Metzner as they barged their way towards the back of the tram, from whose passengers a warm communal smell of beer, tobacco and sweat arose. ‘There is blood on my face, you understand. I said to him that I have fallen in the street, celebrating his party’s great victory – he wears a NSDAP badge, you know. He could not argue with that.’
Rowlands nodded, guessing that this was neither the time not the place to pursue the discussion. As the tram lurched and swayed along what seemed – from the speed with which they were travelling, and the frequency of the stops – to be another of the city’s great boulevards, he let his thoughts drift, reviewing the events of the past forty-eight hours, since the telephone call had come. It had been late on Saturday night; he had just been locking up before going up to bed. ‘Hello?’ He was already apprehensive: they never got calls this late. ‘Fred? Is that you? Oh, thank God.’ He’d known at once from Dorothy’s tone of voice that something was wrong. Not even on the occasion, some years before when she had been in peril of her life, had she sounded so frightened.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Billy. He’s …’ Rowlands held his breath. ‘He’s disappeared.’ He let himself breathe again.
‘How long is it since you missed him?’
‘They’ve been gone since yesterday afternoon. I was expecting him back from school, and …’ Here she broke down. ‘Oh, Fred, what am I going to do?’
But he’d picked up something in what she’d just said. ‘You say “they’ve” been gone since yesterday? Is there someone else with him?’
‘Yes, he’s with Walter, his cousin. Oh, Fred …’
‘Try and keep calm, old thing. It has only been a day. They’re probably camping out somewhere. You know what boys are.’
‘In January?’ His sister gave a tremulous laugh. ‘Billy’s not that daft. And Fred … there’s something else …’
‘Three minutes, caller.’
‘Yes, we haven’t quite finished.’ It was a remarkably good line, he thought, with the part of his mind that wasn’t occupied with what Dorothy was saying. ‘It seems there’s a man about.’ She gave a sob. ‘Oh, Fred, it’s too horrible! He catches little boys and … and kills them. There’ve been at least twenty so far.’
‘Now, don’t upset yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Billy’ll turn up safe and sound. His cousin, too. How old is the cousin, by the way?’
‘Twelve. A year older than Billy.’
‘Is he a sensible sort of lad?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’
‘Well, then. I’m sure he’ll look after Billy. He’ll know his way home at least.’
‘Yes, that’s what Jack says. He thinks the same as you – that they’re just having an adventure. But Fred …’ Here she lowered her voice as if she were afraid of being overheard. ‘You don’t know what it’s like here. It isn’t the same as it is at home.’
Well, he was certainly finding that out for himself, thought Rowlands, as the tram lurched to a halt with a screeching of brakes, and the driver bellowed, ‘Alexanderplatz!’ Evidently this was the last stop on the route, for the passengers now began shuffling towards the doors, carrying Rowlands and his young guide along with them. The square – he assumed it must be a square of some kind – was loud with traffic: the rumble of motor buses and the rattle of horse-drawn carts over the cobblestones competing with the sound of trams arriving and departing. Piccadilly Circus, thought Rowlands, as Metzner, muttering something about their being just in time to catch the Number One, grabbed him by the arm once more. ‘You needn’t hold me quite so tightly,’ Rowlands protested as the younger man dived off in the direction of the tram stop. ‘It’ll be enough if you touch my sleeve when you want me to follow.’
The other apologised. ‘I was told I must not lose you,’ he said in an undertone. ‘And you see how it is. At least, you do not see, but …’
‘I’m familiar with the expression,’ said Rowlands drily. ‘And I do see. But even if I did get lost, I have the address, you know.’
Metzner made no response to this unless it was a shrug, for the tram was now in front of them, and it was a matter of once more jostling for a place on the already crowded vehicle. This time, for a wonder, they managed to get a seat – vacated, at that moment, by a burly man in rough tweeds and his no less substantial wife. Subsiding with a grateful sigh onto the wooden bench, Rowlands realised how tired he was. Hungry, too – he had eaten nothing since the last of the ham sandwiches Edith had made to see him through the journey.
At the thought of his wife, he felt a warm glow of affection. Dear Edie! What a brick she had been about the whole affair. It wasn’t every woman who’d have put up with this, admittedly harebrained, plan but, ‘Of course you must go,’ she’d said. ‘Will Jack be going with you?’ – his sister’s husband having already expressed his intention of so doing. ‘I’ve told him to stay put for the time being,’ he replied. ‘There isn’t a lot of point in our both going. Not unless …’ He left the sentence unfinished. Unless the news turned out to be worse than they expected, was what he meant. ‘At any rate,’ he went on, averting his mind from this grim prospect, ‘I’m not sure what earthly use it’ll be having one blind man joining the search, let alone two.’
‘Oh, you’re good at that sort of thing,’ was Edith’s reply. He wasn’t so sure of that, but he’d do what he could; pull what strings he could, too, if it increased the chances of finding the boy. The day before he’d set out on his quest, which was only yesterday, he reminded himself, he’d telephoned Alasdair Douglas at home, apologising for troubling him on a Sunday, but explaining the circumstances. The two men had been friends for years, having met under conditions which might have precluded that friendship. Now the Chief Inspector waited until Rowlands had had his say before replying gruffly, ‘Well, I don’t see as there’s much I can do given that it’s a foreign country, but as it happens, I do know a man there who might be able to help.’ This, it transpired, was a certain Inspector Gentz, whose offices were to be found in that very square through which they had just passed: Alexanderplatz. ‘Not a bad sort – for a German,’ was Douglas’s laconic assessment. ‘He and I worked together on the Streicher smuggling case, ye ken. Rounded up the gang quite nicely, between us.’
So it was, armed with a letter – thoughtfully left for him at Waterloo Station, and addressed to this useful official – that Rowlands now arrived in this strange city. A city made all the stranger, he reflected, as the tram rattled its way along the unfamiliar streets, by the fact that most of its inhabitants seemed, at least temporarily, to have taken leave of their senses. He felt a touch on his arm. ‘We get out here,’ said Metzner. Once they had turned off the main street – Prenzlauerbergstrasse – the snow, which had been reduced to icy slush in the main streets, lay thickly on the pavements, muffling their footsteps, until it seemed to Rowlands, lightheaded with fatigue, as if they might be alone in a vast wilderness instead of in the heart of a great city. For a few minutes, they tramped along in silence, then the youth said, ‘You asked me if there had been any news?’
‘Yes.’
‘There has been no news.’
‘I see.’ It was what Rowlands had supposed. He tried for a lighter tone. ‘We have a saying, “No news is good news.”’
‘You mean that as far as we know, they are not dead.’
‘I suppose that is what I mean,’ said Rowlands, a little taken aback at this bald statement of fact. It appeared that Metzner realised that he had gone too far, for he said after a pause, ‘I apologise. I am behaving very badly. But you see, I am enraged. Is that how you say it?’
‘Perhaps you mean upset?’ suggested Rowlands gently.
‘I am angry at what is happening in my country,’ replied the young man. ‘I think enraged is the correct word, is it not? Perhaps I am a little bit upset, too, that my stupid little brother has run away. But what I feel most of all is angry.’ They had reached the corner of the street; another led off from it. ‘We go down here,’ said Metzner. ‘It is not far.’ Here, the snow was still thicker underfoot, the silence more absolute. When the young man spoke again, it was in a subdued tone. ‘Was it because of the war? That you are blind, I mean?’
‘Yes,’ said Rowlands ‘It was because of the war.’
‘Then you must hate us.’
‘No.’ Rowlands was unable to suppress a smile at the other’s bluntness. Was there nothing he wouldn’t say, this irascible youth? ‘I don’t see the use of that.’
‘You are not like most of my countrymen,’ said the youth. ‘They see the use of hating – very much! In here,’ he added, directing the other, by a touch on the shoulder, through an archway and then through a heavy street door. A flight of stairs lay before them. ‘Verdammt!’ muttered Metzner. ‘The light’s gone again. I don’t suppose it makes much difference to you, does it? Come on. We’re on the third floor.’
They had just reached the second floor landing when, on the floor above, a door opened and someone came out. A familiar voice called, ‘Is that you, Fred?’ and Dorothy came running down the stairs to meet them. ‘I wondered what had happened. You’ve been so long,’ she said as they carried on up the stairs together.
‘We got a bit held up,’ said Rowlands. They reached the third floor landing, where someone else was waiting.
‘Here they are, Gott sei Dank,’ said a woman’s voice; then, ‘But what has happened to your face?’
‘It’s nothing, Mutti,’ said the young man, now speaking German; Frau Metzner was evidently not an English speaker, thought Rowlands, determining that any further exchanges should be intelligible to her. ‘A scuffle with some HJ kids, that’s all. Herr Rowlands saw them off for me.’
‘I think you were doing quite well without my help,’ said Rowlands with a smile, as the four of them went inside. A savoury smell of cooking – some kind of stew, he guessed, his mouth watering – mingled with the smell of smoke from a wood-burning stove. After the icy blast into which they had been walking for the past quarter of an hour, it was a welcome relief.
‘Even so, I must thank you,’ said the woman Rowlands supposed must be Viktor’s sister, Sara Metzner. ‘You are welcome to my home.’ He bowed, by way of acknowledging what she had said.
‘Since no one has seen fit to introduce me, I had better introduce myself,’ said another, no less attractive voice: a young woman’s, this time. ‘I’m Clara. Do let me take your coat.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rowlands, gratefully surrendering this. A few minutes later, he found himself seated at a large oilcloth-covered table, with a steaming plate of beef stew in front of him. Joachim Metzner sat opposite him, wolfing down a plate of the same while the women hovered nearby, ready to fill glasses and plates as needed. There seemed a tacit agreement not to mention the subject that was uppermost in all their minds until the men had finished eating. So it was Rowlands who broke the silence. ‘I gather you’ve heard nothing?’ he said.
‘No.’ It was Dorothy who spoke. ‘Not a word.’
‘What do the police think?’ At which his sister gave a scornful laugh. ‘What do they think? I don’t get the impression they think very much at all. If they do, they haven’t said anything to us.’
He nodded, then pushed his plate away. ‘Is it all right if I smoke?’ he asked, turning his face towards where he guessed Frau Metzner to be standing.
‘Please,’ she said. He took the pack of Churchman’s from his pocket, extracted one, and lit up; then, ‘You’d better begin at the beginning,’ he said.
They hadn’t realised anything was amiss until dinner time, Dorothy said. ‘I’d been out that afternoon, trying to find some winter boots for Victor – he’s outgrown last year’s. When I got back to the flat, it was already dark. I just assumed the boys must be in their room …’
‘We, too, were thinking this,’ put in Clara, who had been following the conversation.
‘So it wasn’t until I went to call them for supper, that I found they hadn’t come back.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About six. We thought at first that they might have met up with some other boys from school. But when Sara went round to ask, none of Walter’s classmates knew anything about it – did they, Sara?’
‘No. All they said was that Walter and Wilhelm had left school at four o’clock when class was dismissed. They did not know where they went after that. It is not like my Walter to behave thoughtlessly.’ Frau Metzner gave a tremulous little laugh.
‘I wish I could say the same for Billy,’ said his mother. ‘But he’d never be deliberately cruel.’ Her voice, too, betrayed signs of agitation.
‘Of course not,’ said Rowlands. He hesitated a moment before putting his next question. ‘Was there … well, any reason why Billy might not have wanted to come home?’
‘Had he and I had a falling-out, you mean?’ said his sister. ‘The answer’s no. Although he wasn’t awfully keen on the prospect of going back to England next week.’
‘Ah,’ said Rowlands. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought. It seemed to him that his nephew was quite headstrong enough to pull a stunt like this if it meant getting his own way in the matter. And I know where he gets that from, he said to himself. ‘So he’d made himself quite at home here, then?
‘Yes,’ said Dorothy, not without pride. ‘He speaks quite good German – doesn’t he, Sara?’ she added, reverting to that language. ‘That was Viktor’s doing, of course.’ Dorothy’s voice softened at the mention of her late husband. ‘And he’s got even better at it since he got permission to attend school with Walter.’
‘Yes, I wondered about that,’ said Rowlands.
‘I thought it’d be good for him to see the inside of a German classroom. The school was very good about it. And then, he and Walter have really hit it off, these past few weeks.’
‘It is good for Walter to have a friend, because he has not so many friends at school now,’ said Frau Metzner. ‘They have their groups and societies, you know, and …’
‘What Mutti means is that he’s not allowed to join the Deutsches Jungvolk,’ put in Joachim, from the far side of the room, where he had taken himself with the newspaper after supper. ‘Because we are Jews,’ he added, in case Rowlands had missed the inference.
‘Do you think Billy might have persuaded Walter to help him run away?’ said Rowlands to his sister. ‘So as not to have to return with the rest of you to England?’ It seemed to him an all too likely scenario. In the two years since Dorothy had remarried, relations between Billy and his stepfather had not always been of the most cordial. ‘I do my best with him,’ Jack Ashenhurst had confessed to his friend in an unguarded moment. ‘But he’s not the easiest of customers. Vic’s a sweet boy,’ – this was Dorothy’s younger child – ‘but I can’t seem to get Billy to listen to a thing I say.’
‘It’s his age,’ Rowlands had said consolingly; thinking privately that, regardless what age he was, his young nephew had always been something of a mystery. Now here was the proof.
Dorothy considered the question. ‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘But … to leave it so long without a word to let us know they’re all right.’ She broke down at last. ‘It’s been three days!’
‘Now then, old thing. No need to take on.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She blew her nose sharply. ‘It’s hard for you, too.’ This was to her sister-in-law. ‘But I can’t shake off the feeling that something terrible must have happened.’
‘Put that thought right out of your mind,’ said Rowlands with more conviction than he felt. ‘There’s nothing more to be done tonight. First thing tomorrow, I’ll go to police headquarters. I gather there’s an Inspector Gentz who works there. He might be able to help us.’
‘Gentz?’ came the voice from the far side of the room. ‘I have heard the name, I think. Let us hope he is not one of the new intake, that’s all. Party members, all of them. They don’t have time for us. In fact, they would very much like us to disappear. We are not true Germans, you understand.’
‘From what I know of this man,’ said Rowlands, fervently hoping that this would prove to be the case. ‘He isn’t that sort at all.’
Chapter Two
Rowlands was wide awake the moment he opened his eyes. He groped for his watch; it was just on six. Careful to make as little noise as possible, he got up and, having folded his bedding neatly at the end of the put-you-up on which he had spent the night, made his way to the bathroom on the landing, which was shared with the downstairs flat. He was relieved to find it unoccupied at this hour although, as he’d anticipated, the water was stone cold since the geyser had not yet been lit. He wondered, as he performed his necessarily swift ablutions, whether he could get away without having a shave; then decided that, today of all days, he needed to make a good impression.
As he deliberated, there came a rattling of the door handle. ‘Besetzt,’ he called out.
‘Herr Rowlands? It’s me – Joachim,’ said a voice through the door. Rowlands opened it.
‘You’re up early,’ he remarked.
‘I must be at work by half past seven,’ was the reply; then, ‘If you want to shave, there is a pan of hot water on the stove for this purpose. I usually do this at the kitchen sink,’ said the youth. ‘It is much warmer, I find.’
‘Thanks,’ said Rowlands. A few minutes later, washed and shaved, both men sat at the kitchen table, nursing cups of black coffee, or what passed for coffee, Rowlands thought. ‘Where is it that you work?’ he asked, more out of politeness than because he really wanted to know. Metzner’s response took him aback, its defensiveness seeming out of proportion to the casualness of the enquiry.
‘Where do I work? I … I work at UFA. The … the film studios,’ he added, in a voice that trembled with some suppressed emotion.
‘That must be an interesting job.’ Rowlands was puzzled at the young man’s seeming agitation. What an excitable fellow he was, and how strangely he’d reacted to what was, after all, quite a straightforward question! Perhaps it was another feature of life in this foreign city – that one didn’t ask questions.
Suddenly, without a word of explanation, Metzner pushed back his chair. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I … I must go.’ To his astonishment, Rowlands realised that the young man was on the verge of tears.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But …’ Before he could discover what it was that had so upset Metzner, the latter grabbed his coat, and with a muttered ‘Goodbye’, rushed out of the flat as if, Rowlands thought, the devil were at his heels. A strange young fellow, he reflected, gingerly sipping the watery ersatz coffee. I wonder what it was I said?
He was still puzzling over this when he heard his sister come into the room. ‘You’re up early,’ she said.
‘I might say the same to you,’ he replied.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ She poured herself a cup of coffee from the jug on the table, took a sip and gave an exclamation of disgust. ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve had better.’
‘I keep thinking about him,’ she said as she sat down in the place just vacated by young Metzner. ‘About Billy. Wondering where he is at this moment, and if he’s frightened.’
‘At least he’s not on his own,’ he said, unable to think of any better way of comforting her.
‘No.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘There is that. But they’re children, Fred!’ she burst out, in a tone of such anguish that it made his heart ache for her.
‘Children can be very resourceful,’ he said. ‘I mean, think of that time with Anne …’ The event to which he was referring had taken place two years before, but its horror still had the power to rouse him, sweating and trembling, from sleep.
‘I was forgetting that you’d been through something of this kind,’ said his sister. ‘Although at least …’ She let the sentence tail off.
‘At least I got her back safely,’ he finished for her.
After a moment, Dorothy said, ‘What are you going to do?’ That question, at any rate, he could answer.
‘I thought I’d pay a visit to the police station. I’ve a letter of introduction from …’ He broke off, but she’d already guessed who it was he meant.
‘From your copper friend, the Chief Inspector, you were going to say.’ Rowlands didn’t deny it. ‘Oh, don’t think I’m not grateful. He saved my neck once before, as I’m sure you remember. But this …’ She seemed unable to speak for a moment. ‘This is a thousand times more important. Oh, Fred! What if we don’t find them …’
‘We will.’ He reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. ‘And it might make all the difference, having someone in authority on our side.’
‘If he turns out to be on our side,’ she said morosely. ‘It’s hard to tell whose side anybody’s on, the way things are here.’
‘If Chief Inspector Douglas recommended him, then he’ll be a good sort,’ said Rowlands. ‘Have you got the photographs there?’ This had been his idea since, for obvious reasons, he was unable to give more than a cursory description of the boys. A class photograph of Walter Metzner had accordingly been found; the only available image of Billy was a snapshot, taken the previous summer, of the boy with his stepfather.
‘I brought it so that Sara could get an idea of Jack,’ said Dorothy. ‘I never thought it would end up being used in a police investigation.’
‘Of course not.’ Again, he patted her hand. ‘How is he, by the way?’ he said, meaning his old friend.
‘Jack? He’s fine – at least, he was when I last saw him.’ This was a month ago, Dorothy having been invited by her late husband’s sister to spend Silvester with them. ‘He’s very worried by all this, of course.’
‘Yes, I had the devil’s own job to persuade him to stay at home,’ said Rowlands. ‘But I pointed out that he’d be at the same disadvantage as I am when it came to getting results. Speaking of which,’ he went on, ‘I was hoping young Metzner might have been able to accompany me to Alexanderplatz. But it appears not.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Dorothy. ‘Although it’ll mean bringing Vicky.’ Just at that moment, her six-year-old son ran into the kitchen, and clambered onto his uncle’s lap.
‘Where’s Joanie?’ he demanded – this being his favourite cousin.
‘Tucked up in bed, I should think,’ said Rowlands, ruffling the child’s hair. ‘I’m assuming, from what Douglas said, that this man Gentz speaks English,’ he said to his sister. ‘Although my German isn’t too bad – I’ve Viktor to thank for that.’
‘You will allow me to accompany you, please.’ Clara Metzner must have slipped into the room while they were talking. Evidently, they were early risers in the Metzner household, Rowlands thought – either that, or they’d all slept as badly as he had. Now the girl busied herself setting out plates and knives around the table. ‘You will need someone with you to …’ She broke off, perhaps afraid that she might have embarrassed him.
‘To show me the way,’ Rowlands finished for her. ‘That’s kind of you. But don’t you have classes to go to?’ He’d gathered from last night’s conversation that Fräulein Metzner was in her last year at high school.
‘Not so many, now,’ she said, setting down a basket containing slices of bread in the middle of the table. ‘Two of my teachers have left. One has gone to America. It is better there for Jews, you know.’ Unlike her brother, she gave no particular weight to this statement. It was as if she had remarked on the weather.
They were at the police station by nine, although it wasn’t until after they’d sat for a good hour on one of the hard wooden benches in the waiting room that the police officer to whom Rowlands had stated his business on arrival, tapped him on the shoulder and barked an order. At which the girl also rose to her feet, only to be told to sit down again by the same official. ‘Just you,’ he said curtly to Rowlands.
‘Don’t worry,’ the blind man told his young companion. ‘I’m used to finding my way about.’
He touched his breast pocket to check that the photographs of Billy and Walter were still there. Then, at a further impatient command from the policeman, he followed the latter along a corridor, through a set of double doors, and along another corridor. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the tiled floor. From somewhere else in the building, came the sound of voices raised in anger, followed by the sound of a crash, as of a fist against a table; then silence. At length, the two of them came to another door. The officer knocked: a smart double rap. ‘Komm herein!’ called a voice.
The man who rose from behind the desk as Rowlands entered was big and burly, to judge from the deep, guttural tones of his voice, and from the vigour with which he shook hands. ‘Ah! Herr Rowlands! My apologies for keeping you waiting all this time, but you see how it is, just now. There is so much for us to do, with the new administration having taken over only yesterday, you know.’
‘I’m sure there must be,’ said Rowlands, relieved to find that the man spoke excellent English.
‘Comings and goings, with this one in and that one out, you understand.’ The big man laughed. ‘I assure you it makes one’s head spin! And then there is all the fun of clearing up after last night’s celebrations …’ he went on, still in the same tone of – was it forced? – joviality. ‘So many broken heads and bloody noses! You know what young people are … Always in such high spirits, are they not?’
Rowlands smiled thinly, recalling the high-spirited young people he and Joachim Metzner had encountered the night before. ‘But enough of such matters,’ said Inspector Gentz. ‘I have read the letter you brought from my good friend Chief Inspector Douglas. He tells me you are in need of my help, to find a missing person.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do sit down, Herr Rowlands. There is a chair two paces in front of you. So. Let us begin. According to the Chief Inspector’s letter, it is your sister’s son who is missing, with another boy.’
‘Yes.’
The policeman grunted. ‘Boys go missing,’ he said. ‘In this town more than most. I suppose you have heard of our “Ghoul”, as we call him? He has so far succeeded in making away with twenty-four boys between the ages of seven and thirteen – most of them fished out of the Landwehr Canal, although a few have been found in the woods, and one on the railway tracks. It is to be hoped that your nephew has not been added to their number.’ There seemed nothing to say to this, and so Rowlands merely nodded. He took the photographs from his pocket and held them out towards the Inspector.
‘Perhaps these will be of some use,’ he said. The other took them, and studied them for a moment. ‘Nice-looking lad,’ he said. ‘Is that his father with him?’
‘His father’s dead. That’s his stepfather.’
‘And the other lad’s one of ours, I gather? Funny little chap. Those glasses don’t do him any favours, do they?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ said Rowlands.
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Gentz, evidently unperturbed by the cool reception his remark had received. ‘How did you become blind, by the way? Got a face-full of mustard gas, did you?’
‘Shrapnel,’ said Rowlands.
‘Bad luck. Where was this?’
‘Passchendaele.’
‘Ah, yes, A bad show, as you English say. I myself was at Verdun, with the Fifth Army. It is funny to think,’ said the policeman in the same phlegmatic tone with which he had described the activities of the child-murderer, ‘that we were on different sides during the war. I remember once saying to the Chief Inspector, “Alasdair, old man” – we were on quite friendly terms, you understand – “Only think that, a little more than a dozen years ago, you and I were doing our best to kill one another.” How we laughed at that, he and I!’
‘I suppose it does have its funny side,’ said Rowlands. He was beginning to wonder if they would ever get to the heart of the matter. But just then the Inspector, dropping his affable manner for one of businesslike acerbity, said, ‘Well, I will see what I can do. But I cannot promise anything. You will leave these with me, of course?’ He tapped the photographs on the desk.
‘Of course,’ said Rowlands. ‘But don’t you need to take a few more details?’
‘I believe my colleague, Inspector Schneider, made a note of the same when he called at Frau Metzner’s flat two nights ago,’ said Gentz, turning over some papers on his desk. ‘Yes, here it is: “Walter Leopold Metzner, aged twelve years and four months; height: four foot eleven inches; black hair, brown eyes, glasses; resides at Flat Three, One hundred and thirty-nine, Marienbergerstrasse; missing since the night of twenty-seventh January, 1933; last seen leaving school – the Heinrich Heine Oberschule, on Driesenerstrasse – at around four p.m., with his cousin, William Frederick Ashenhurst, aged eleven years and six months; height: five foot one inch, brown hair, green eyes, no distinguishing marks – also missing.” Is that good enough for you, Herr Rowlands?’
‘Yes,’ said Rowlands. ‘Thank you.’
‘As a matter of fact, it is rather irregular for me to concern myself with a case already assigned to a colleague,’ said the Inspector. ‘But I am willing to do it as a favour to an old friend.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘But you must understand that there is very little I can do unless one of two things happens,’ the policeman went on. ‘Either we receive information that the boys have been seen alive, and are then able to use that information to discover their whereabouts, or …’ He paused for a moment. ‘We do not. Do I make myself clear, Herr Rowlands?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rowlands. ‘Perfectly clear.’
The two men shook hands – again, Rowlands was made aware of the forcefulness of the other man’s grip – and then Gentz went to the door and gave an order to the man waiting outside it. ‘Officer Schultz will see you out,’ he said. ‘Good day, Herr Rowlands.’
‘Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Gentz,’ said Rowlands, feeling that he should make at least this minimal effort to return the courtesy the other had shown him. The Inspector seemed to appreciate the attempt.
‘Very good!’ he cried, his booming laugh echoing along the corridor after Rowlands. ‘We will make a German of you yet!’
By the time they left the police station, it was getting on for midday, and Clara said she had a class to attend. ‘But first I will have my lunch,’ she said as they boarded the Number One tram. This would take Rowlands to the end of Marienburgerstrasse, and the Metzners’ flat; the school was two stops further.
‘Is this the school your brother attends?’ asked Rowlands.
‘Yes. That is … he is at the Gymnasium,’ she said. ‘It is the building next door, you know.’
‘Good,’ said Rowlands. ‘Then perhaps you could point it out to me?’ After his somewhat inconclusive interview with Inspector Gentz, he thought it could do no harm to carry out a little sleuthing on his own account. Because whether the police were dealing with the matter or not, the fact remained that the last time the two boys had been seen was at school, and the last to have seen them were Walter’s classmates. But when he explained what he had in mind to Clara, she seemed dubious.
‘I do not think that they will want to talk to you, these boys. They have already said to my mother that they know nothing of Walter’s disappearance.’
‘Who are they, in particular?’ said Rowlands, undeterred by this. ‘I mean, what are their names? They do have names, I take it?’
‘Of course.’ She sounded almost offended, as if perhaps he were accusing her of making things up. ‘Their names are Dieter Geisler and Kurt Bauer. They are Walter’s friends. At least,’ she corrected herself, ‘they were.’
‘Then,’ he said, ‘I should like to talk to them. They might perhaps have remembered something. Do you think,’ he added, with an innocent air, ‘that their English will be as good as yours?’ Clara Metzner laughed. At once, the stiffness of manner which made her seem older than her years was dispelled.
‘I am sure it will not be,’ she said. ‘They will only just have begun to study this subject. And besides, they are very lazy boys.’
They arrived at Heinrich Heine Oberschule as classes were being dismissed; a torrent of girls and boys poured out of the school’s main entrance – on their way home for lunch, Clara explained. ‘It is only those who live near enough to get there and back in an hour who may go,’ she added. ‘It is too far for me … and Walter.’ As she pronounced her younger brother’s name, her voice trembled. It struck Rowlands that, beneath her reserved manner, Clara was as upset about what had happened as the more volatile Joachim.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll find them – I promise.’
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘Come. We must go in here.’ This was the entrance to the Middle School, which was next to that of the main building. A shallow flight of steps led to a heavy oak door, now standing open, as pupils released from class came hurrying out, talking at the tops of their voices. It was, thought Rowlands, like walking into the Parrot House at the Zoo. Much the same thought must have occurred to someone else, for a voice cried, with what seemed to Rowlands a certain desperation, ‘Ruhe! Kein Laufen in den Gängen!’ No running in the corridors – the age-old cry of the schoolmaster, thought Rowlands. ‘That is Herr Hinck – Walter’s teacher,’ said Clara, confirming this guess.
‘Then he’s just the man I want to see,’ said Rowlands. He stepped into the man’s path. ‘Herr Hinck? Einen Moment … Ich heiße …’
‘But you are English, are you not?’ said the teacher, adding with some complacency, ‘I of course speak English.’
‘Oh, jolly good. The name’s Rowlands. I wondered if I might have a word with you? It’s about the two boys who went missing last Friday.’
The other seemed taken aback; then he recovered himself. ‘Ah, yes. Poor Walter and his English cousin. You are the boy’s father, perhaps?’
‘His uncle.’
‘Of course. But let us not stand in the corridor.’ He opened a door into what Rowlands guessed, from the smell of ink and chalk dust, must be one of the classrooms – empty at this time of day. ‘We will not be disturbed in here. Come in, come in. You too, Miss Metzner. Although I do not see how I can help you. I have already told everything I know to the police.’
What he had told them, which he now repeated for Rowlands’ benefit, was, on the face of it, unremarkable enough. Yes, he had taken the last class of the day – it was History; that was Herr Hinck’s subject. They had been discussing the Prussian victory over the French, which had led to the setting up of the German Reich. Walter and Wilhelm had both been in class. He could not remember whether either had said anything of note; he rather thought not, although both boys were generally quick to put their hands up when a question was asked. Yes, indeed, Wilhelm, too. His German was surprisingly good, with almost no accent at all. It had improved a good deal since he had been attending a German school, of course. So there it was. Class had been dismissed at the usual time, and the boys went home – at least, so he had supposed. It was only later, when the police called …
‘Was there nothing at all that struck you as unusual?’ interrupted Rowlands. Throughout the teacher’s recitation, he had become increasingly convinced that the man was holding something back. Maybe it was no more than that his tentative manner of speaking seemed constantly to be undermining what it was he had just said. Rowlands pictured a typical middle-aged schoolmaster, with thinning hair and a wispy moustache, his shabby tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers the uniform of his kind everywhere; his nervous mannerisms betraying a lifetime spent in the atmosphere of the classroom, with all its petty rivalries and repressions.
‘I … I am not sure what you mean.’ There it was again! That note of hesitation. The man knew something, thought Rowlands.
‘I mean was anything said or done by any of your pupils which seemed to you out of the ordinary?’ he persisted. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Well …’ Herr Hinck appeared to consider the question. ‘There was a trivial matter … hardly worth mentioning. I am sure I would have forgotten it if you had not reminded me, Herr Rowlands.’ The schoolmaster gave an awkward laugh. ‘We teachers must deal with incidents of this kind every day.’
‘What happened?’ said Rowlands softly.
‘Oh, nothing of any significance, I assure you! I was merely obliged to confiscate a certain publication from our young man … Walter, I mean.’ Again came the embarrassed laugh – it was more of a snuffle, thought Rowlands. It struck him that it would be an easy sound to mimic, and he felt a stab of pity for the man. ‘You know how it is, with boys of that age … Or perhaps you do not?’
‘Go on,’ said Rowlands.
‘I hardly think,’ said Herr Hinck, ‘that, in front of the young lady …’
‘I have two brothers, Herr Hinck,’ said Clara. ‘I am not easily shocked.’
‘Very well. It was a magazine with … with pictures of actresses and the like. Women … I am sorry to say … without their clothes. There! You cannot say I did not warn you.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Rowlands gravely. ‘And do you still have it – this magazine?’
‘Certainly not. I threw it in the stove at once. It is of course possible, Herr Rowlands,’ went on the other, ‘that young Walter did not realise what kind of publication this was. He might have picked it up unwittingly. The older boys – though they are forbidden to do so – sometimes bring this kind of thing to school. So you see, he might be completely innocent.’ Having unburdened himself of his distasteful secret, Herr Hinck was evidently anxious to justify the fact of his having said nothing about it to the police. ‘It seemed completely unimportant to me, you see? A foolish prank. I did not think it could have anything to do with what happened after.’
‘And what was that?’
It seemed to Rowlands that the schoolmaster hesitated before replying, ‘Why, the boys’ disappearance, of course. A most distressing occurrence. And now, Herr Rowlands,’ he went on, his manner suddenly brisk, ‘I am afraid I must bring our interview to an end. I have enjoyed this opportunity of practising my English, and of reawakening memories of that country. I spent many happy days there in my youth. Do you know Dorking? A very pleasant town. And such delightful countryside! Our German mountains are magnificent, of course, but I confess to having a soft spot for your gentle Surrey hills.’
Since there was evidently nothing more to be got out of Herr Hinck, Rowlands and his young companion took their leave of him. ‘This way,’ said Clara, once they were in the corridor. Unlike her brother, she did not drag him by the arm, but touched Rowlands lightly upon the elbow to indicate the direction in which they should be going. Although in this instance the mob through which they were having to make their way was composed, not of storm troopers, but only of schoolchildren. ‘I hope you will not think me a prude,’ said the girl, ‘when I say that what Herr Hinck told us about Walter surprised me very much. My younger brother is a serious boy. I do not think he is interested in looking at pictures of unclothed women.’
‘No, of course not,’ murmured Rowlands. ‘Perhaps, as Herr Hinck suggested, Walter merely picked up the magazine without realising what it was.’
‘Perhaps.’ But she did not sound as if she believed it.
At the end of a corridor, they came to a set of double doors. ‘We must go in here,’ said the girl. ‘I think we will find those for whom we are looking within.’ This was a dining hall, of what Rowlands guessed to be lofty dimensions; the muted chatter of the assembled pupils – perhaps fifty, all told – was lost in its vaulted roof space. Taking Rowlands by the arm, Clara drew him across the room, threading between rows of trestle tables until they reached the furthest one. Here, she sat down, and directed Rowlands to the place next to her. To judge by the muttered remarks and stifled laughter which arose at the appearance of the strangers, there were three or four others occupying the table. Fräulein Metzner issued a command, and several of the boys got to their feet and sloped off. ‘They will sit elsewhere,’ said the girl to Rowlands. ‘These two are the boys you want.’ At once, one of the two got up as if to leave. ‘Sit down,’ said Clara sternly. ‘This is Herr Rowlands, who wishes to ask some questions about Walter.’
‘Ich weiß nichts!’ cried the boy who had leapt to his feet. ‘Speak English,’ said Clara. ‘Or if you cannot manage that, then at least answer Herr Rowlands’ questions with civility.’
‘We have already said everything to the police,’ said the boy who had remained seated, in a sullen voice. He had not taken up her invitation to practise his English.
‘Well, you can say it again, Dieter Geisler,’ replied Clara; then, when he began to protest, ‘We know about the dirty magazine.’
‘What do you mean?’ spluttered the youth. ‘I don’t know about any dirty magazine.’
‘Oh, don’t pretend to be an innocent!’ said Clara scornfully. ‘You know what I’m talking about – the magazine confiscated by Herr Hinck. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was you who gave it to Walter.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ It was the turn of the other boy, Kurt Bauer, to protest his innocence. ‘It was Metzner’s magazine, all right. He said his brother gave it to him.’
‘What!’
‘That’s right,’ put in Geisler. ‘Film-Welt. It had a picture of that actress he’s so mad about. The one with the …’
‘Shut up, Geisler!’
‘Blonde ringlets, I was going to say,’ said Geisler, with the same butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth air he had assumed earlier.
‘So it was a film magazine that Walter was passing around?’ said Rowlands, thinking it was high time he took charge of this interrogation.
‘Yes, sir.’ Again the oleaginous Geisler took it upon himself to answer. ‘Metzner was mad about films. Because of his brother working at UFA, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Rowlands. ‘I do know. And what happened afterwards?’
‘Afterwards?’ A wariness had crept into the boy’s manner now. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you? Then let me spell it out for you. I want to know what happened after the magazine was confiscated, and after class was dismissed for the day. I know that something happened, and I want you to tell me exactly what it was.’
Before Geisler could reply, the other boy, Bauer, pushed back the bench on which he was sitting, with a scraping sound. ‘We have to go now,’ he said. ‘We must be in class soon.’
‘Sit down, Mr Bauer,’ said Rowlands quietly. ‘I want an answer to my question before you go. What happened after school? Did you wait for Walter and Wilhelm outside, with some of your other friends? Was there a bit of roughhouse, perhaps?’ When the two boys remained silent, he went on, keeping his tone light and amused, ‘Oh, come on! I know how it is when what starts as no more than a bit of fun gets out of hand. A snowball gets thrown a little bit harder than intended. Somebody’s lip gets cut. Somebody else’s jacket gets torn …’
‘Since you seem to know all about it, why are you asking us?’ said Dieter Geisler.
‘Shut up, Geisler!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Rowlands pleasantly, ‘I’d prefer to hear it from you.’
‘We didn’t start it,’ said the boy sullenly. ‘In fact, we tried to stop it – didn’t we, Bauer?’
‘That’s right. It was von Richter and his crowd who started laying into them … I mean …’ The boy broke off.
‘It’s all right,’ said Rowlands. ‘I know you don’t want to land your classmates in it. But you must see that I have to know what happened.’
‘Nothing much happened,’ said Bauer. ‘It was just a bit of pushing and shoving. Name-calling, you know …’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rowlands. ‘I know.’
‘It was because of that stupid film magazine,’ put in Dieter Geisler. ‘Metzner was always bragging about all the actresses his brother had met and how easy it was for him to meet them, too. In fact, he was going to meet one of them that very night, he said. The most beautiful of them all.’
‘Sybille Schönig,’ put in Bauer. ‘It was all rot, of course. And so we … that is, von Richter … decided to teach him a lesson. There was a bit of roughhouse, like you said. But it wouldn’t have come to anything if the English boy hadn’t started fighting back. He’s a dirty fighter,’ he added, with what seemed a grudging admiration. So then we … von Richter and his friends, I mean … had to carry on. It was a good fight,’ he said. ‘Metzner’s nose started bleeding. It was then that Herr Hinck came out …’
‘Ah,’ said Rowlands. He had guessed the man had known more than he’d let on.
‘So we had to stop,’ Walter’s former friend was saying. ‘Fighting is forbidden, you see.’
‘Indeed,’ said Rowlands. ‘And was that the last time you saw them – Walter and Wilhelm, I mean?’
‘Yes, it was. Can we go now?’ said Dieter Geisler. But his friend hadn’t quite finished.
‘It was funny what Metzner said as we were leaving,’ said Kurt Bauer. ‘I have to admit he was plucky. He was standing there, with blood running out of his nose, and he shouted out, “You wait until Monday! You’ll be eating humble pie then!”’
‘Do you know what he meant?’ said Rowlands.
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said the boy.
