Nightingale & Co E-Book

Charlotte Printz

• Herausgeber: Corylus Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 511

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Berlin, August 1961. Since the death of her beloved father, Carla has been running the Nightingale & Co detective agency by herself. It's a far from easy job for a female investigator. When the chaotic, fun-loving Wallie shows up at the door, claiming to be her half-sister, Carla's world is turned upside down. Wallie needs Carla – the Berlin Wall has been built overnight, leaving her umable to return to her flat in East Berlin. Carla certainly doesn't need Wallie, with her secret double life and unorthodox methods for getting results. Yet the mismatched pair must find a way to work together when one of their clients is accused of murdering her husband. Nightingale & Co is the first in a cosy historical crime series featuring the sisters of the Nightingale & Co detective agency in 1960s Berlin.

Leseprobe

Nightingale & Co

Charlotte Printz

Corylus Books Ltd

Copyright © 2025 Corylus Books Ltd

Nightingale & Co is first published in English the United Kingdom in 2025 by Corylus Books Ltd, and was originally published in German as Die rätselhafte Klientin (Nachtigall & Co.) in 2023 by  dtv VerlagCopyright © Charlotte Printz, 2023Translation copyright © Marina Sofia, 2024Charlotte Printz has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.All characters and events portrayed in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or not, is purely coincidental.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

About The Author

Chapter 1

‘You’re where? Brandenburg Gate?’ Carla could barely get in a word for the torrent gushing from the other end of the line. ‘You’re on the film set again? You’ve got what? A rifle! Impossible!’ She refrained from flinging the receiver into its cradle. She checked her diary and the clock on the wall above her desk. Could she rescue Lulu from all this palaver and still get back in time to meet her new client? Not likely.

‘Please!’ Her aunt sounded unusually scared and pathetic. ‘You have to convince them, or else they’ll cart me off to the police station!’

Lulu was a good actress.

‘I beg you...’ she whispered. There were indeed harsh masculine voices in the background and even a police siren.

‘I’ll come as quick as I can,’ Carla promised. Of all the adventurous exploits that her aunt Lulu had been up to since the death of Carla’s father, this sounded like the craziest one by a long margin.

Should she take the S-Bahn or a taxi? Carla hesitated as she grabbed her lace summer gloves, a final present from her father. It would work out just fine, she told herself with a smile, that had always been Father’s motto. She missed him, not just because of the presents, which he always seemed to pull out of a hat. Her mother used to call him ‘the Raisin Bomber of Charlottenburg’, in a slightly jaded tone. But since his fatal car crash, there were no more raisins to be had – they had to watch every pfennig. Better take the S-Bahn then!

Carla checked to see if she had sufficient coins in her handbag, locked the door of the Nightingale Agency, ran up to the second floor and called out to her mother, ‘I’ll be right back!’ then rushed back downstairs.

As she made her way down Grolmanstraße through the summer heat towards Savigny Station, she congratulated herself for having had the foresight to wear her sensible shoes as well as the new faux-Chanel bouclé suit. It would almost certainly be a great help to look older and more earnest, if her crazy aunt had really got into trouble with the police.

Carla was breathless by the time she got onto the platform, but her reward was that the train drew in just then. Three rattling carriages with an oily smell.

The deadly combination of sweat, smoke and eau de cologne hit her like a wall once she was inside the carriage. She tried to take only shallow breaths, but everything started swimming out of focus. She grabbed a strap just before the train set off.

She’d started having these dizzy spells since last year, right after the accident which killed her father but which she’d survived. Carla hated this fuzzy loss of focus, although the doctors kept saying there was no need to worry, that she was lucky she’d overcome her head injury so well. She considered herself anything but lucky.

She clung fast to her strap, until the dizziness subsided a little. Then she squeezed past a couple of men who didn’t even look up from their newspapers, muttering her apologies as she sat down.

She closed her eyes in relief for a moment and touched the die on her lucky charm to collect herself. Not a good idea, it just made her feel worse. Better do some spotting, like in dancing. She opened her eyes to stare out of the window, but it was moving too fast.

Her eyes fell on the newspaper opposite, magnetically attracted to the large picture of Kennedy. Her heartbeat quickened, not because of JFK himself, but because he reminded her of Richard. Kennedy could have been his brother, they both had that tall, rangy look, a fine head of hair, as well as that unusual, electrifying glow. The slightest side glance from Richard turned her insides to liquid syrup. She dreamt of embracing him and breathing him in. After four semesters she’d finally worked up the courage to approach him. He’d looked at her and she’d gone up to him... but was then unable to do anything except stand there, not saying a single word. Carla looked down at her lace gloves. She should’ve dropped one of the gloves, he’d have picked it up and then... What would it have felt like, to ruffle his elegant quiff? Her fingertips started to tingle. His hair must be so silky, with a strong smell of brilliantine, moss and freshly-cut wood.

She sighed. She’d been studying law, but after Father’s death, she and her mother were left without a pfennig, so she had to take on the Nightingale & Co. Agency to earn some money for the two of them.

She tried not to think of all that and focused instead on the headline below the Kennedy picture in the Berliner Morgenpost. It had to do with the press conference the other day, on the 10th of August, where he’d spoken about the Berlin problem. Kennedy was quoted word for word: ‘There has been a tremendous passage from East to West which, of course, I know is a matter of concern to the Communists.’ Surely every single person living in Berlin knew that. Carla squinted a little to see the next sentence: ‘...because this tremendous speed-up of people leaving the Communist system to come to the West and freedom, of course, is rather illuminating evidence of the comparative values of the free life in an open society, and those in a closed society under a Communist system.’

Why on earth was Kennedy using all those indirect allusions, instead of simply stating that the Allies would do their best to preserve freedom in the West?

Father thought JFK was nothing more than an idle talker. ‘A politician who won’t wear a hat so as not to damage his quiff has no respect for anyone,’ was his opinion after a couple of glasses of Berliner Luft peppermint liqueur. Father must be turning in his grave knowing that the hatless Kennedy had been sworn in as the American President in January.

The S-Bahn stopped with a squeal of wheels. The doors opened, letting in more of the sticky-hot summer air, but at least the seat opposite was now free. Three more stops and then she’d have to change at Friedrichstraße. Heavens, the timing was tight! What on earth was Lulu thinking, carrying an air rifle close to the border with the Eastern sector?

A small, plump woman with a hat decorated with oversized flowers sat down opposite her. She took out a roll of sour gumdrops and popped one in her mouth. Carla couldn’t look away: the woman and the hat reminded her of her aunt.

The woman noticed Carla staring at her and offered her a gumdrop with a twinkle in her eyes. That was exactly what Lulu would have done, although she might have embellished things with a dramatic ‘I always have some on me for any kissing scenes in the film. Did you know that Walter Giller is the best kisser of them all?’

Carla shook her head. ‘Thanks anyway,’ she said and smiled in as friendly a manner as she could. It really wasn’t nice to stare at somebody and then turn down their sweets. This was all because of the film Emil and the Detectives – after seeing that, she had nightmares and never accepted anything from strangers ever again.

‘Please yourself!’ the woman shrugged indifferently, put away her gums and took out a Constanze magazine from her enormous handbag. She took off her gloves, licked two fingers and started leafing through the magazine, as if she were at home on the sofa. Carla observed her greedily devouring a richly illustrated article about Farah Diba and the Shah of Persia. That was exactly the kind of thing Mother would read too – she adored royal beauties.

Oh no! She blushed as she realised she’d forgotten to buy Mother’s favourite magazine. Naturally, her mother had not uttered a single word about this omission, and she never would. She was so proud of the fact that she never complained. She preferred to suffer in silence.

When Carla finally arrived at the Brandenburg Gate, she could already hear the screech of the autograph hunters long before she even set eyes on them. ‘Horst, Horst, Horst!’ Great, so the film set must be close by. She walked hurriedly towards the barriers designed to keep the fans away from the actual filming.

Scores of young women were waiting with their autograph books for the stars of the film One, Two, Three. Carla could understand all too well why Lulu was so keen to get a part in this Billy Wilder comedy. The main stars were James Cagney, Liselotte Pulver and of course the one whom all the girls had come to see: Horst Buchholz.

It broke Lulu’s heart when, after two casting calls, they opted instead for the Austrian actress Rose Renee Roth, who in one fell swoop became Lulu’s arch-nemesis. Since shooting started, Lulu kept hanging around the film set, hoping against all hope to secure a role.

But what on earth was she planning to do with the air rifle? Shoot her arch-rival? Could you even kill someone with that? Probably not. Then what? Shoot the hat off a border guard to get her name in the papers? Yes, that sounded more like her.

Just behind the film set there was the crossing to the Soviet zone, which was teeming with even more border guards than usual. Ulbricht must have been worried that comrades might be tempted to flee to the West – after all, the film was about one of the most seductive drugs of American capitalism: Coca Cola.

As Carla approached the set, she noticed lots of shrivelled balloons lying on the street, which reminded her of a complicated but well-remunerated case she’d solved with her father. They had to secure used condoms for evidence. They’d been able to solve the case, but the memory of it made her hair stand on end. She shook her head to get rid of the unwelcome images and tried to search for Lulu instead. 

She was good at observing details, on the streets, inside buildings, she could recall everything in great detail even hours later. More than that, she could even picture things she’d not actually seen in a particular place but that should have been there, or things that had happened there. Carla found this somewhat disconcerting, but her father was far more pragmatic about it and explained it was the collective unconscious. It was neither strange nor magical, it was simply a useful skill and he encouraged her to develop it further, particularly when he noticed that it helped them move an investigation forward.

No sign of either Lulu or any policemen anywhere. She’d have been easy to spot with her extravagant hat in this sea of young autograph seekers in their capris or petticoats. There were guards in uniform every fifty metres. The artistes’ entrance had no less than three guards in front of it.

You couldn’t make out much beyond the barriers, other than the Brandenburg Gate. Some tracks had been laid and a mounted camera was being pushed backward and forward slowly by two young men, until someone with a megaphone yelled ‘Cut!’ which made the camera trolley and a few extras come to a standstill.

Not a trace of Lulu. As she turned to check in the other direction, a wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted towards her. She could do with a coffee now, but she couldn’t figure out where the smell was coming from, nor where Lulu could possibly be. Had she somehow strayed beyond the barriers? She’d said on the phone that the police had arrested her, but there was no sign of police anywhere, just the private security on set and the border guards at the Brandenburg Gate, who looked grey and frozen like tin soldiers.

‘Horst! There he is, Horst!’ cried one of the autograph hunters, pointing somewhere beyond the barriers, running towards it and trying to climb over. The others followed, shrieking. Carla shielded her eyes with her hand and watched them.

Indeed, it was Horst Buchholz heading towards one of two stalls, which Carla had not hitherto spotted. Liselotte Pulver was standing in front of one of them, taking a cup from a woman in a white apron. There was a snack stall right next to the coffee stall, and she became aware of the appetising aroma of grilled sausages and chips. Carla’s stomach started to rumble. Her cheese sandwich was still at the office, and she wouldn’t have much time to eat when she got back.

Where was this aunt of hers?

She claimed she’d be carted away by the police if Carla didn’t come to back her up in the great fib she’d told them. But there were no police around. Or did she mean the border guards? That would make sense, because surely it was a grave error to wander so close to the border with an air rifle. What if Lulu had been taken to Hohenschönhausen Prison, because she’d been rude to them?

Goodness, the smell of those sausages! She couldn’t help but look at the food stalls, where Liselotte Pulver was being escorted by a man. She was nodding and laughing her famous big laugh, which reminded Carla of the time she’d queued for hours to get tickets for Father for the premiere of A Glass of Water at Zoo Palace Cinema. But then the accident happened and when she found the tickets months later in her drawer, she burst into tears. They’d never do anything together again. Instead, she had to look after Mother and grab hold of his crazy sister as soon as possible and head back home. She couldn’t risk having the new client turn up to find the door locked. After all, there were many rival detective agencies in Berlin.

Carla walked up to one of the guards standing at the cordoned-off entrance to the film set. She was confident that, dressed as she was in her sober little suit, she did not resemble any of the autograph hunters.

‘Excuse me, have you seen any police officers around here?’ she asked. He shook his head and pointed at one of his colleagues who was standing closer to the Brandenburg Gate. She went up to him and asked again.

‘Whaddaya want with them?’ This guard was obviously bored and looked forward to a bit of disruption to his routine. He tapped his burly chest, grinning; his chest looked particularly fine in the dark blue uniform. ‘Ain’t I ace enough for ya?’

‘No, no, none as ace as you!’ Carla wasn’t even lying, for the man was very attractive, his eyes full of mischief. ‘But they’ve got something you don’t have!’

‘Impossible!’ He scrutinised her more closely and raised an approving eyebrow.

‘Yes, they pulled in my grandma,’ she said. Most people loved their grandmothers; aunts were decidedly less popular.

‘A wee little thing, covered in jewels and armed to the teeth with a hat and a gun?’

Carla nodded, stunned.

‘Nah, sorry!’ The guard laughed out loud. He must be teasing her. How else would he have known to mention the hat and, above all, the gun?

‘I’ll be in trouble if I don’t bring Grandma back soon...’ Carla wished she could squeeze out a few tears, but the only actress in the family was Lulu. Maybe she’d be more successful with a little tip.

‘All right then, don’t wanna spoil your day. It’s all good.’ He pointed towards the food stall. ‘They took...’ he hesitated a moment, ‘Grandma over there and are now having a fine ole time.’

Carla looked where he was pointing, but all she could see was Horst Buchholz raising his bottle of beer with James Cagney.

‘Behind the food stall are the cheap seats for the crew,’ he explained.

‘And how do I get in there?’

‘Got a smoke by any chance?’

Of course she had. First rule of detecting: always have some cigarettes on you. Carla opened her bag and took out a pack of Lucky Strikes.

‘It’s all yours!’

‘Look at that, will ya!’ He pocketed the cigarettes, waved and called to his colleague, ‘Off for a quick break.’

Then he pushed the barriers to one side and politely gestured to Carla that she should go through. She was pleased that she’d be spared the death stares of all the female autograph hunters.

The closer she got to the film set, the more alluring the smell of coffee and fries. There were people bustling around between the cardboard backdrops, tables full of tools and clothes trolleys. On their left, a workman was connecting a sidecar to a black motorbike bespattered with mud. The guard sighed.

‘Would love to have one of those!’

‘A dirty motorbike?’

‘Nah, got one already. I meant the sidecar, so I could cruise through Berlin with pretty girls and their grandmas!’ He looked at her admiringly. Was he always so ready to turn on the charm?

A couple of steps further, two women were blowing up balloons with a hand-held pump. When the balloons reached their full size, Carla saw what was written on them and had to laugh. The first lot said Russki go home, the other Ami go home.

‘Be swell if they both got the hell outta Berlin!’ the guard commented with a broad grin. They ducked behind a plywood model of a tall building and finally reached the back of the food stall.

And there she was! Carla was struck dumb at the scene unfolding before her eyes.

Aunt Lulu was sitting at a table, giggling with two uniformed policemen. One of them must have told an incredibly funny joke, because they were all bent over with laughter. One of the men was smacking the table with his hand as he laughed, making the now-empty currywurst containers jump, while the gun leaning on the table right next to Lulu rattled.

Carla didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Aunt Lulu had once again managed to rescue herself.

It was late. Too late, she could tell without even looking at her watch. She’d have to get a taxi to be back in time. And even so, she’d need to have the traffic lights all going her way.

Before Carla could say anything to Lulu, the guard stepped forward and picked up the pellet gun. The two policemen instantly snapped to attention and Lulu’s eyes bulged when she finally noticed Carla.

‘Careful!’ said one of the policemen, the table-thumper.

‘Just a pre-war Diana 25,’ said the guard, holding the gun in shooting position and pointing it skywards, ‘I know it. A harmless toy.’

‘Depends,’ said the other policeman, getting up and standing to attention. ‘If one of these things hits you…’

Straight in your heart would be nice, thought Carla, looking daggers at her aunt, who was making gestures of appeasement.

‘Child! How nice to see you here at last!’

Carla took a deep breath and started counting backwards from 777, so as not to lose her composure. Seven was her lucky number and she really could do with some luck right now.

‘Just imagine,’ continued Lulu unabashedly, ‘While I was waiting for you – for so long – I managed to sort things out with these nice gentlemen. Sit down, my child, and Trudi will make you a nice portion of fries.’

What was she on about and who on earth was Trudi? Aunt Lulu always assumed people knew whom she was talking about. Lilo, Billy, and now this Trudi person.

‘I don’t have time for that, unfortunately,’ said Carla, trying to ignore the rumbling in her stomach. ‘As I told you on the phone, I have an appointment.’

‘But, child, your father would hate to see you all skin and bones! And Trudi...’

‘So that’s poor, poor Grandma?’ said the guard, shaking his head.

‘I see you’ve got it all in hand!’ said Carla, turning round and rushing towards the barriers. That was it, done, over!

‘Wait a minute!’ called Lulu after her, ‘I can explain.’

But I don’t want to hear it, thought Carla, speeding up. She bumped into something soft. A man had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and they collided. His peaked cap flew through the air and landed on the floor.

‘Watch out, will you?’ she said.

Then she looked up. Oh, no, it couldn’t be... it was Billy Wilder. Lulu had shown her hundreds of pictures of him and of his films. His glasses hung lopsided, and it was all her fault.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said and wished she were four metres behind the Brandenburg Gate. She bent to pick up the cap, desperately wracking her brains for more English vocabulary, but drawing an absolute blank. ‘So, so sorry,’ she said as she handed him the cap.

‘Isn’t the saying “More haste, less speed”?’ he said in German with a slightly rattling voice. He took the cap, slapped it against his thighs a couple of times and put it back on his head.

Of course, he was from Vienna and Berlin. ‘You’re right. I should have looked where I was going.’

‘According to Lubitsch, whom I admire greatly, even the most dignified person makes a fool of himself at least twice a day,’ the Hollywood director continued, adjusting his glasses back and forth until he was satisfied. ‘This was merely the first time today!’

‘Please accept my apologies.’

Billy Wilder winked at her. ‘Take it easy, you know that nobody’s perfect!’ Then he headed off to the coffee stall.

A heavy hand grabbed Carla’s shoulder. She was ready for anything by now. Getting arrested, thrown out, sued. She superstitiously touched the lucky die on her necklace.

‘I’ll take you out this way, there’s a taxi stand here.’

To her relief, it was the guard who’d helped her before. ‘Seems like you’re in a hurry.’

‘Thank you, that’s kind of you.’

He handed her the rifle. ‘I confiscated that, just in case.’

Carla stared at the rifle, then at the guard and then, over his shoulder, at Billy Wilder helping himself to a coffee. Had she really just experienced all of that? Now she’d have to rush through the city with a gun to complement her fake Chanel suit. She’d almost certainly be too late for the meeting even if she shot her way through the crowds.

The guard must have realised that she was about to keel over, because he smiled encouragingly.

‘By the way, my name’s Bruno,’ he said as he shyly handed her a note, ‘Here’s the phone number from the place where I sub-let. Just in case you feel like havin’ a coffee some time.’

‘A taxi to start with, perhaps?’ said Carla, stuffing the note in her handbag.

‘No taxi required,’ said Aunt Lulu, all out of breath. She still had the two policemen in her wake.

That was all she needed! How had her aunt moved so fast, when she hated any form of sport other than dancing? At least she hadn’t witnessed the collision with Billy Wilder, otherwise she’d have tried to make a lifelong friend of the film director.

Lulu dramatically handed Carla a portion of chips, as if she were presenting her with the Oscar for best film rather than a greasy paper bag. ‘For you!’ she said.

‘I’ve got my hands full.’ Carla waved her handbag and the rifle. ‘Besides, I don’t have the time.’

‘I’ve solved the problem. These charming gentlemen will drive us to Charlottenburg. I’ve explained to them how important it is for you to get to your meeting with the mayor’s spokesman in time.’

All three men looked respectfully at Carla. She tried to keep an earnest face and cleared her throat. What had Lulu just invented?

‘Thank you,’ she said at last, unable to bear Bruno’s amazed glance. ‘This shows a great spirit of citizenship on your part, I’m sure the mayor will appreciate it.’ No need to be too honest, she was sure there would be no police escort for a meeting with her actual client.

Soon after, Carla was sitting next to Lulu on the back seat of the black police Volkswagen Beetle, eating her chips to the accompaniment of the howling siren.

‘Can you please explain what you were doing with an air rifle on set?’ Carla whispered, looking anxiously at the two policemen. ‘And what about the call? There was no one arresting you, obviously!’

Aunt Lulu handed her an embroidered handkerchief. ‘You’re going to get your suit dirty. Not much of a loss, though, this horrible colour would insult even blind people. I wouldn’t use it even as a coat for my little Fritzi to go walkies.’

Carla bit her tongue and instead took the last three chips out of the newspaper. She could read the titles clearly through the grease, and now she understood where Lulu had got her idea about the mayor’s spokesperson.

Adenauer warns that Willy Brandt is sowing panic. It bodes ill for peace if the Mayor of Berlin claims that its inhabitants are afraid that the Iron Curtain will be cemented there.

Carla crumpled up the newspaper, leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Her aunt’s soft hand squeezed hers. ‘Well, child, we got out of that alive. Tomorrow I’ll pay my debt by taking you out to lunch at Café Kranzler and tell you all about it. My treat, of course.’

As always, Carla was unable to say no to that.

Chapter 2

Just five minutes left!

Carla managed to freshen herself up in haste in the toilet, then flung open all the windows and prepared a fresh folder for her new client. She didn’t write the name on it, simply the number 120861/A. That was the filing system for the Nightingale Agency, date and the client order for the day. Her father had impressed upon her that it was important to store the client files by number rather than names, to keep them fully confidential.

Three years ago, a furious husband had tried to steal compromising pictures of himself and his mistress from the agency. He couldn’t find the file – which was a good thing. The bad thing was that he’d been so angry that he destroyed the entire agency décor. Mother had been horrified: what if the man had come upstairs to their living quarters? Father promised to install new, vastly better locks, but he never got around to it, and her mother of course didn’t complain about it, because the Raisin Bomber of Charlottenburg had more important things to do.

Carla shook the flowery cushion on the rattan chair positioned in front of her desk. She’d not made any improvements since the death of her father, it would have felt like an insult to him. Besides, she loved his black swivel chair. She knew how much he’d saved to acquire this leather monster that was his pride and joy. In the long term, however, she had to admit that she might have to exchange it for something more suitable, it was far too big for her, and she looked like a child pretending to be the boss in it.

Maybe the clients would appreciate the ficus plant by the window or the atmospheric paintings on the wall, which were perfect for filling awkward silences. Sunrise at Wannsee, a copperplate engraving of Charlottenburg Palace or Aunt Lulu as a witch. She very nearly laughed, but then her eyes rested on the two bell-shaped bottles on the sideboard. Father’s was half-full with rather dusty pfennig coins, while hers was nearly full. Her father told their clients that he was collecting coins for Carla’s wedding shoes. It was his less-than-subtle way of letting her know that he’d have liked to see her settling down. But she’d seen enough marital strife on the job, so she pretended not to hear him.

The truth was, those pfennigs were the result of a bet between the two of them.

Father had got the idea when he installed a phone in Grolmanstraße. Clients started to call beforehand to arrange an appointment. He decided it was a good opportunity to develop their Sherlock Holmes skills, so he added a loudspeaker to the system, so that Carla could listen in. They both tried to guess things about the person purely from the sound of their voice. Could they draw any conclusions about their looks, their education, job or hobbies?

Whenever one of them was right about something, a pfennig would be added to the bottle. At first Father easily outclassed her, but by the time of the accident her bottle was starting to overtake his, even though she was spending less time in the agency because of her studies.

Ingrid Niemöller, the client she was seeing today, had sounded a little out of breath; perhaps she was slightly overweight or not very active. Asthma or simply overexcited? Or she might have been speaking so quickly because she was afraid that she’d change her mind. However, she’d not had any awkward pauses or fillers such as ‘erm-hum’. She obviously knew what she wanted and was probably used to speaking to strangers. Carla hadn’t been able to detect a single filler word: those pesky ‘actually’, ‘so to speak’, ‘really’, ‘quite’, and not even any ‘would’, ‘could’, ‘should’. It was all ‘I want’, ‘I need’. Perhaps Frau Niemöller worked in retail or was an executive assistant?

Three minutes left.

Enough fresh air. Carla was in such a rush to close the window, that she nearly missed Katrin waving at her from the house opposite. She waved back and signalled a W with the thumb and index finger on both hands. This meant that Carla had to work. A Y meant that yes, Katrin could come over. The two letters could be easily spotted from across the street, and Katrin loved all those codes. She’d instantly learnt the full finger alphabet. Half a year ago, Carla had rescued Katrin’s beloved toy tortoise from the clutches of Fritzi, Aunt Lulu’s black poodle, and ever since then the little girl had wanted to become Miss Sherlock Holmes. She abandoned her dolls, because they didn’t fit in with her career plans. Carla was sure she’d succeed; she was not only a bright girl but, at just ten years old, she already had more oomph than Carla. A natural talent.

Carla turned away from the window and quickly brewed a coffee in the tiny kitchenette. The smell of fresh coffee was always good for relaxing, especially with tense women clients. Many appreciated having a cup to hold on to. It was funny that women seemed to find admitting having a problem harder than having one in the first place. Conversely, men preferred to speak about their problems very quickly, get it out of the way at once.

The phone rang. She hoped it wasn’t Frau Niemöller changing her mind, which often happened in divorce cases. The man came home with a bouquet and the world seemed a better place. If Carla had known that, she wouldn’t have been in such a rush. She picked up the receiver and was relieved to hear that it was Alma Hochbrück, not the new client.

They knew each other from the charity work they did for the Berlin Fledglings Orphanage. This time, however, Alma sounded very sniffly and was whispering, as if she was afraid someone might overhear her. Maybe she’d been crying. Alma asked if she could come to the agency the following day, although it was a Sunday, because it was the only day she could make it and it was extremely important. She wanted Carla to reassure her that anything they discussed would be 100% confidential. Carla promised her that confidentiality was of utmost importance in her agency. She liked Alma a lot and was rather sad that she’d have to interrupt her call because of Frau Niemöller’s arrival.

‘Of course,’ Carla said warmly, ‘You can come whenever you want, I’ll be delighted to help.’ She hung up and wrote down the appointment for tomorrow at 17:00. Despite Alma’s unhappiness, she couldn’t help feeling relieved to have another client, because she was down to her last reserves, just enough to keep them going for another couple of weeks. August was always a quiet month.

Why did Alma want to see her? The Hochbrücks always struck her as a perfectly happy couple. Both good-looking and intelligent, and he had a good sense of humour. Did the professor have a mistress? Or maybe he visited prostitutes and had brought back some disease? This sort of thing seemed to happen more frequently than one might expect.

The doorbell roused her from her reverie. It was exactly 16:00! A huge point in Frau Niemöller’s favour. She liked punctual clients.

Carla reached out her hand to greet the client and had to look up to catch the eye of the tall, slender woman in front of her. No pfennig for appearances then! As self-assured as a model, Frau Niemöller strode forward into Carla’s office in a black-and-white suit in the Chanel style. She was clearly used to being listened to carefully. The client took possession of the rattan chair, pushed the cushion away with a mocking smile, straightened her skirt and sat down. She looked around for something on Carla’s desk.

Ashtray, Carla realised, and brought out the orange-brown Murano monstrosity out of the middle drawer. She’d always hated it, because it reminded her of that terrible day with her mother, but of course she couldn’t tell her father that. I’ll replace it next week with a modern steel ashtray with a lid, she told herself.

The client bent to take her cigarettes out of her handbag, and a haze of Shalimar spread through the room, a mix of vanilla, citrus and roses that Carla really liked. The perfume gave an unexpected edge to the classic suit and underlined the more feminine aspects of her attire. Carla noticed the double pearl necklace and the silk blouse. Could the suit be a genuine Chanel?

‘Clothes are the windows into a human soul’ was Father’s mantra. For some, those windows were opened wide and you could look straight in, while others used clothes to shut themselves off. Frau Niemöller’s suit looked custom-made, but the black-and-white bouclé did not really suit her. Carla suppressed a smile, because it struck her that the woman opposite her was also trying to appear more serious and older than she was. Her skin was smooth and even, she must be at the most in her late twenties. She had the same hairstyle as Carla, her dark hair tied back into a perfect low chignon.

What could have brought this woman here? She didn’t seem distraught enough for a divorce or a cheating spouse. Besides, Carla couldn’t spot any wedding ring, merely a plastic ring of white and pink flowers – the kind that Katrin had made recently at a children’s birthday party. The ring didn’t match the rest of her appearance. Was Frau Niemöller a businesswoman or a lawyer? Was it a case of industrial espionage?

Carla offered her coffee and asked how she could help. Frau Niemöller declined, then lit her cigarette with a gold lighter and breathed in deeply. Marlboro – not exactly a woman’s cigarette.

‘Do you work alone?’ asked Frau Niemöller instead of answering, and inhaled deeply once more.

‘I have excellent associates whom I can call upon as and when required. But if you wish for utter discretion, I can of course handle everything personally. What is this about?’

‘I’m looking for a man,’ said Frau Niemöller earnestly.

‘I see.’ Carla was curious where this was leading.

‘But first I’d like to know how much this is going to cost me.’

‘Hard for me to say, without knowing any details. Our daily rate...’ Carla hesitated. She still found it difficult to talk about money, but then again, Shalimar was expensive, and the suit was probably Chanel.

‘Our daily rate is 40 marks, plus expenses,’ she continued, ‘We have a three-day minimum booking, which needs to be paid in advance.’

Frau Niemöller nodded. ‘That’s fine.’ She took a deep breath and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. Carla knew at once she should’ve asked for more.

‘It happened at the German-American Folk Fair...’

Oh no, not another such story! Carla did her best to conceal her disappointment. A GI had got her pregnant? They had had to search for so many missing fathers, and the US Army was not very helpful, despite the contacts Father had cultivated.

But the German-American Folk Fair? That had taken place this year for the first time. She knew that because Aunt Lulu had been determined to celebrate her birthday there. It had been on the 29th of July – so no chance of detecting a pregnancy on the 12th of August. What else could it be? Rape? A bit too late to take this to the police. Maybe a theft?

‘It sounds a bit...’ Frau Niemöller grabbed the pearl necklace around her neck and let it slip through her fingers pearl by pearl, as if it were a rosary. ‘I think I do want a coffee, after all.’

‘Of course.’ Carla was unsettled. By now she’d normally have an inkling what it was all about. She stood up and poured coffee into the Blue Onion porcelain cup. ‘Milk, sugar?’

‘Under no circumstances.’ The woman nevertheless used the spoon to stir her coffee, then set the spoon to one side and took a sip.

‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’

Carla almost choked and thought of Richard. Of course she did, but in the end it was nothing but youthful fantasies, and would soon pass, like a cold. She’d had feverish dreams about him every day at university, yet by now she really only thought about him very occasionally.

‘What do you mean, Frau Niemöller?’

‘I mean exactly what I said, love at first sight!’ Frau Niemöller began to smile and this time the smile conjured up a pink shimmer on her cheeks, as if her skin was being dusted by mother-of-pearl powder. The client now looked weightless, as if on a cloud, and not a day older than twenty.

‘By the way, please call me Niki, I prefer that.’

‘Niki?’ Not exactly the short form for Ingrid.

‘That’s the name I’d have picked for myself if I had the choice. Don’t you think it’s unfair that all our lives we have to bear a name that someone else burdened us with?’

Carla nodded. Nobody had bothered to find a suitable name for her; on her ID card she was Karla, after Karl-Otto. Nobody had searched for a girl’s name. Nobody wanted a girl. Nobody had wanted her.

‘There’s a crazy activist painter Niki de Saint Phalle, who paintballs figures made out of plaster.’

‘Interesting,’ muttered Carla, realising that Niki Niemöller seemed to have wide-ranging interests, from German-American folk festivals to activist painters. Still avoiding the matter in hand. ‘So, Niki, what can I...?’

‘I put myself forward for the Queen of the Folk Fair contest and I even won third place.’ The woman sat up straighter and smiled more broadly.

‘Wonderful,’ said Carla, hoping that she wasn’t conveying her disapproval of beauty contests, unless they were for dogs or cats. ‘And?’

‘You can only take part if you give out your name and address, but I had to remain incognito, so I not only wore a blonde Marilyn wig like the one in Some Like It Hot, but I also gave a false name and address.’

‘Yes?’ Carla studied Ingrid more closely – was this a Jekyll and Hyde problem?

Frau Niemöller shuffled in the chair. ‘This kind of behaviour is not really compatible with my job.’

‘Giving false details?’

Ingrid shook her head emphatically. ‘No, having any kind of fun. My behaviour has to be beyond reproach at all times, beyond any ethical doubts. That’s in my contract. If they find out, I’ll get fired. And Jack, the man I lied to, must think I’m a monster.’

‘Jack what?’

‘He told me his surname, but I didn’t quite get it and it seemed so irrelevant at that moment in time.’

Carla had experienced over and over again that GIs gave a false first name and a deliberately unclear surname. At least this seemed par for the course.

‘Did he say where he was from?’

Ingrid smiled. ‘Yes, I definitely remember that, because at first I thought he meant Atlas. I must have looked confused, because he repeated that he was Jack from Atlanta, Georgia.’

‘So why this masquerade? These lies? Are you working for the Church?’

Ingrid gave a wicked grin. ‘On the contrary. If they knew about my job, they’d excommunicate me.’

‘Sounds mysterious.’

‘I’m a sales representative for a pharmaceutical company for women’s diseases.’

‘Do women’s diseases require such high ethical standards?’

‘I sell Anovlar!’ Ingrid made this proclamation as if she was handling gold.

What on earth was Anovlar? Carla wracked her brains for any residual information, but she hadn’t come across it before.

‘It’s a tablet, well, a pill, that you take to avoid getting pregnant. Isn’t that wonderful?’ This was clearly a rhetorical question, because Ingrid continued without any pause. ‘But it’s a delicate matter. Many doctors believe that if they prescribe such a pill, they’re supporting wanton behaviour among women. They’d rather see birth control remain the domain of the men. You know, coitus interruptus...’ Ingrid mimed something with her hands.

Carla blushed deeply, and got even more flustered, because she knew her cheeks now looked as if they’d been slapped. Ingrid wasn’t to know that thus far her knowledge of men was purely theoretical. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, it was just Lulu who went on and on about it, as if it was a disaster on par with the Titanic.

‘...and condoms,’ Ingrid continued unperturbed. ‘Women are not allowed to have any control over their bodies, because that could lead to Sodom and Gomorrah, the pill would make women behave like crazed sex-maniacs. So if I want to hit the sales targets – which is what my company expects of me – I have to have a spotless reputation and visit each doctor’s surgery looking as earnest as a nun with a headache. I have to make it clear that this pill is intended for married women, who shouldn’t be bearing any more children for health reasons. Naturally, that’s a lie, but we don’t discuss that. Do you see my dilemma?’

‘Not quite,’ said Carla. If this pill had existed when her mother was young, then she probably wouldn’t be alive now, because she and Father wouldn’t have had to get married. And if he hadn’t married into the Nachtigall family, then what job would he have chosen? He’d wanted to become a journalist, or maybe a cook or a singer – or everything at once, Karl-Otto Koslowsky, the singing journalist-cook.

‘Are you listening to me?’ asked Ingrid Niemöller, cocking her eyebrow.

‘Of course, I understand,’ Carla lied. If she had such a well-paid job, then she wouldn’t bother to enter any beauty contests. ‘It was impossible for you to give Jack your real name and we should find him for you?’

‘Yes. I’ve already been to the venue, but no one gave me any information.’

Of course not, the American Army always suspected that any woman asking about a GI was likely to produce a pregnancy and other such complications. It was quite ironic that it was the opposite in this case. Carla suppressed a smile and asked, ‘Do you have a picture of the two of you from that evening?’

Ingrid finished her coffee, leaned back in her chair, visibly more relaxed than before, and played with her pearls again.

‘Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture.’

‘Can you describe him at least?’

Her eyes were shining. ‘A tall man – taller than me, with broad shoulders and dark-blond hair, cut short, of course. Thick blond eyebrows above grey-blue eyes, his mouth rather too big, the upper lip almost thicker than the lower lip, and of course lovely American teeth – so white.’ She sighed wistfully.

‘Any special marks?’

‘He had a little burn mark on the inside of his wrist.’

‘How old do you think he was?’

‘A little older than me, early thirties perhaps.’

Jack from Atlanta in his thirties with grey-blue eyes – not enough to go on. ‘Do you remember anything else about him, even if it didn’t seem important at the time?’

‘He said his name was Jack, but his mates called him Bobbs, not all of them, some called him Jackov.’

‘You mean Jacob, with a b?’

Ingrid shook her head. ‘No, it was a V for sure – Jackov.’

Could that really be a version of Jacob, or a play on possible Russian roots? She had had a case where a British captain of Italian origin who was known as Dussolini by everyone in his company. Still, that had been easier to crack.

‘But others called him Bobbs. Everyone seemed really pleased to see him, which I rather liked.’

‘Bob like Robert?’ Unusual to have two nicknames.

‘No, it sounded a bit different, really more like Bobbs. But no matter what they called him, they seemed to treat him with respect.’

‘What rank was he?’

‘No idea, but I don’t think it was just because of his rank, he seemed very approachable.’

Approachable was a word that she hadn’t heard in a while. ‘May I ask what makes you think that he felt the same way about you?’

Ingrid laughed. ‘Until now I always thought people who came with such a story were mad. I never expected to experience anything like it. Your eyes wander through a room full of people and suddenly come across the eyes of this person, and you feel like drowning in them. Your heart warms up, everything expands inside you, you’re ready to burst!’ She pointed towards her chest. ‘Everything feels different, the organs inside don’t know what they’re doing, your pulse is racing, you’re trembling, you can barely stand straight, you’re hot and cold all at once. Then the other person approaches and you can almost sense his aura, time stands still, everything falls silent, there’s nothing else in the world...’ She nodded, almost to herself, then took another cigarette from her bag and lit it.

‘Those are physical reactions,’ Carla let slip, thinking of Richard and wanting to somehow warn Ingrid. ‘These bodily sensations wear off after a while, you cannot rely on them or build a future on them.’ She was quite the expert on not building a future, for sure.

Ingrid examined Carla. ‘I understand what you’re saying – it's exactly what I’d have said before it happened to me.’ She pointed at the pink-and-white plastic ring. ‘Jack made this for me at a children’s toy stall. Our engagement ring. “We are made for each other, it’s God’s will”, that’s what he said.’

Far out, thought Carla, but it wasn’t the first time she’d come across soldiers who spun any old yarn to the German Fräuleins, all the while with a family back home in the States.

‘What else did you do? Did he have any special preferences? Of the friends that you mentioned, was there anyone who had any particular traits, or any names that Jack might have used?’

‘No, I was so absorbed by Jack, that it felt like we existed in our own little bubble. I remember we stood by the shooting gallery at some point, but he refused to shoot, because he said it wouldn’t be fair, since that was his job. He was so straitlaced in a way, as if it was really important to him to do the right thing at all times. Although he was devouring me with his eyes, he kept his distance and treated me as respectfully as if I were a queen.’

Approachable and respectful, a strange description, more suited to a priest perhaps.

‘He was charming and helped me to position the gun and I managed to shoot a Berlin Bear for him.’

‘One of those big cuddly toys?’ This would appear on a camera somewhere.

‘No, just a keyring. Then we...’ Ingrid looked around the room, trying to remember. ‘Yes, then he wanted to eat chips. I didn’t, of course.’ She ran her hands down her slim body. ‘My body is my asset – most gynaecologists are men. But he insisted, said they were the best in Berlin. He literally fed me, we shared every last one.’ She sighed. ‘Please help me find him. I have to at least explain why I lied to him.’

‘We’ll find him, but I couldn’t tell you how long it might take.’

‘Thank you.’ Ingrid took a wallet out of her bag and threw 120 marks on the table. ‘Can you start right away?’

Carla stared at the money in surprise. Nobody had ever paid so carelessly before. This pill must be a money-maker. She should’ve asked for 50 marks per day. ‘Any additional expenses will be on top of that, of course.’

Ingrid nodded and stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette.

I’ll get started on Monday, Carla told herself. Bobbs, Jackov or Jack, she’d crack the case. The Nightingale & Co. Agency had always solved every case. Not always to the satisfaction of the clients, which is why they asked for payment in advance.

She took the grey book from the second drawer and wrote a receipt. Ingrid took it, stuffed it in her handbag and got up.

‘I’m sure it’s just a small job for you, but for me, it’s life and death to see Jack again.’

‘You can count on me.’ Carla got up and accompanied her client to the door.

‘You can reach me on the phone in the morning between eight and nine, after that I’m on the road. Please find him as soon as possible!’ And with that she flew down the stairs.

Wasn’t that always the case? Once they decided to use an agency, they wanted results immediately. But the results were not always what the client had been hoping for.

Chapter 3

‘You’re late again!’ Wallie stood up with a groan and handed her bald colleague the sexy sequinned corset that everyone had to wear behind the bar at Eden. ‘Everything is being chilled, refilled with ice cubes, the two new beer barrels have been connected. I’m a bit fed up that this is the third time this week that you’ve left me to prepare the bar all on my own.’ She tried to sound severe, but the more she looked at Edgar, the harder it was to be harsh with him. His usually calm grey eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm. There had to be a serious reason for him being late.

‘What happened this time? Let me guess. The Shah of Persia tried to arrive incognito and you had to prepare two suites for him at the Kempinski? You could still wipe down the bar occasionally!’

The bar was made of dark wood, and traces of hundreds of glasses had left their marks on it, which always made her think of soap bubbles. On her first day working as Nelly at the Eden, her boss had asked her to scrub away the marks, and she only realised that she’d been set an impossible task when she saw Edgar, Irina and Jutta laughing at her.

‘Nelly, you’ll never guess who’s coming here tonight!’ Edgar took a new wig out of the cellophane wrapper, long red locks, supposed to resemble the singer Milva. He held it under his chin like a beard and began to hum a Christmas carol.

‘Idiot!’ Wallie tried not to laugh, she was still cross with him.

‘I’ve told the entire film crew to come here, told them they had to see the Eden Bar if they wanted to experience the real Berlin, and I promised them a place right at the front, of course. This is my chance! Your Lucky Angel is about to make it big!’

‘You bet! Hollywood’s calling!’ Wallie rolled her eyes. Edgar was ready to believe anything when it came to his appearance as an angel. He was usually as stiff and serious as a tax inspector from North Rhine-Westphalia, but when he transformed into Lucky Angel at the Eden, he was ready for anything and truly believed in his future career as a singer. Quite schizophrenic, right? But weren’t they all? There were two conflicting souls fighting within her too. She stifled a deep sigh, after all, she liked proper Edgar just as much as the naïve angel.

‘Even if Gregory Peck were to show up with Audrey Hepburn here tonight, who’s gonna mix the drinks while you are performing?’ She pointed both thumbs towards herself and gave a dramatic groan. ‘Saturday, of all nights! Does the boss know about it?’ The boss loved slobbering all over celebrities, that might have been the reason he’d given Edgar this job, so that he could send all the guests from the Kempinski to his club. It certainly wasn’t Edgar’s vocal talents.

‘Don’t be like that, I know you love my performances. Especially my legs. You said they were better than Marlene’s, remember?’ He danced around her and finished with a deep bow. ‘I beg you to help me. I have it on good authority that the boss’ll be meeting with some award-winning architect and the head of planning tonight. For the building of the New Eden.’ He sat upright and was instantly transformed into the wary concierge who noticed everything. ‘There’s something going on in the city, eh? Can’t you feel a certain nervous tension?’

‘You on your period or what?’ joked Wallie, as she started fine-slicing a lemon. ‘The only thing making me nervous is the thought of all the customers about to descend on us in five minutes.’

‘I tell you, there’s something about to kick off. Billy Wilder told me that today, at the Brandenburg Gate, someone was shooting the balloons they needed for the motorbike scene.’

‘Pranksters.’

‘Don’t think so. The balloons had writing on them: Ami go home and Russki go home. Besides, it was a woman who shot them down.’

‘Some maniac who’s still in love with Hitler.’

‘No, I tell you, something’s going on. Everyone in Berlin is on tenterhooks.’

‘Sure! The Kempinski staff are better than any secret service.’

‘Kempinski might not know anything, but the head concierge does,’ Edgar nodded sagely.

‘What would happen if your colleagues snitched on you?’

He tapped his forehead. ‘Silly question! Nothing! My boss there knows about this.’ With a taunting smile, he put the wig on his bald head, stopped and made a kissing moue with his lips. ‘But his wife would be devastated, of course, for if her husband could see me now, he’d instantly leave her for me.’

‘You big show-off!’ Wallie threw a damp dishcloth in his direction. ‘So, who’s the VIP coming tonight?’

‘’Careful, this is an expensive wig!’ Edgar picked up the dishcloth and folded it. ‘Billy Wilder and his whole One, Two, Three crew.’

‘A lot of them have been here already. Remember that crazy evening with Horst? How’s that going to help you?’

‘Those were the actors. It’s the string-pullers that I need. And who could be more suitable than the producer of Some Like It Hot? Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon dressed up as women musicians – I bet you anything that Wilder likes that sort of stuff!’

‘That film was finished long ago. And Wilder is married, in any case.’

‘So what! I repeat, so what? Maybe it will inspire him to write another masterpiece. What’s wrong with you? You’re not usually so miserable. Have you had a fight with James? Lighten up! Maybe Wilder will discover you!’

‘As what? I’m not a fan of acting!’ She managed to say that without a single flutter of her eyelids. Not bad.

‘Who needs talent? You, my beautiful Nelly, are fairer by far than Marilyn Monroe...’

‘Nonsense! Better get ready. It’s getting busy outside.’

Edgar drew his hand to his head, saluting, then flung his red locks over his shoulder and disappeared into the tiny staffroom behind the bar.

Wallie went to the entrance. Without even realising it, that idiot had hit the bull’s-eye. James wouldn’t show up today, maybe never again. That jealous dolt could not leave off spying on her. Simply because she didn’t want to spend every evening with him, he was sure that she had other lovers. Although it was James who wet himself with fear whenever she sneaked into his apartment behind his landlady’s back, James who was always on call for the BBC and only had time for her when it suited him…. and yet he still acted like the jealous guy. In spite of all that, she missed him – he was a good kisser, and instinctively knew what Wallie wanted, often before she realised it herself.

She peeked through the spyhole to watch out for James. Yes, she had ended things with him, but she didn’t expect a true Scotsman to give up so easily. But no, she spotted Paunchy-Andy and Baldy-Holger and all those students who were not her favourite kind of customers. Most of them left no tips, but at least they were better behaved than Baldy-Holger. His friend Paunchy-Andy wasn’t quite as bad, but they both kept trying to chat up Angel, asking her if she was a ginger down below as well. If they ever realised that Angel wasn’t a woman, they’d have waited outside to beat up Edgar. Because their boob jokes came second only to their jokes about homos, the enemies of any male friendship. And from male friendship they would switch to the unfairness of having to compensate the victims of the Second World War. ‘And who’s gonna compensate us for all we had to endure on the front?’

Working here could be really unpleasant at times. She adjusted her sequin top, pulled back her shoulders and opened the door.

***