Entwined

Chapter 8

The rain had started again, and the traffic jams built up, the journey to Charlottenburg becoming a long and tedious drive. The baron looked from his rain-splattered window and checked his watch. It was after six. Helen spoke to their driver in German. "I have never seen so many dogs!"

Their cab driver looked into his mirror.

"We Berliners love animals, bordering on the pathological. There are more dogs in Spree than anywhere else in Germany — they say there's about five dogs to every one hundred inhabitants."

The baron sighed, resting his head back against the upholstered seat. Helen stared from her window.

"Why is that? I mean why do you think there are so many?"

The driver launched into his theory, welcoming the diversion from the inch-by-inch crawl his car was forced to make.

"Many people living in the anonymous public housing complexes, many widows, a dog is their only companion. A psychologist described the Berliners' love of animals, dogs in particular, as a high social functional factor."

Louis grimaced, taking Helen's hand, and spoke in French. "Don't encourage him! Please... the man is a compulsive theorist!" Helen laughed.

They passed by the Viktoria-Luise-Platz, heralding the West Berlin Zoo, and their driver now became animated.

"The zoo, you must visit our famous Tiergarten. In 1943 the work of one hundred years was destroyed in just fifteen minutes, during the battle for Berlin. When the bombing was over, only ninety-one animals survived, but we have rebuilt almost all of it. Now we have maybe eleven or twelve thousand species — the most found in any zoo in the world!"

At last, they were near the center of Charlottenburg itself.

"Bundesverwaltungsgericht," the driver said with a flourish, and then he smiled in the mirror. "The Federal Court of Appeal in Public Lawsuits."

Helen passed over the slip of paper with the address of Rosa Muller Goldberg's sister, a Mrs. Lena Klapps. The driver nodded, turned off the Berliner Strasse, passing small cafés and ale houses, and rows and rows of sterile apartment blocks, their shabby facades dominating the run-down street, before he drew up outside a building. He pointed, and turned to lean on the back of his seat.

"You will need me to get you back, yes?"

The baron opened his car door, said in French to Helen: "Only if he promises to keep his mouth shut!"

Helen instructed the driver to wait, and joined the baron on the sidewalk. They looked at the apartment numbers painted above a cracked wide door leading to an open courtyard. The numbers read 45-145. Their driver rolled down his window, pointing.

"You want sixty-five, go to the right... to the right."

The elevator was broken, and they walked up four flights of stone steps. Dogs brushed past them, going down, and one bedraggled little cross-breed scuttled ahead, turned and yapped before he disappeared from sight. There were pools of urine at each corner, and they had to step over dog excreta. Helen muttered that perhaps the residents were all widows. "Dogs are... what did he say? A social function? More like a health hazard."

There was a long stone balcony corridor, the apartments numbered on peeling painted doors... sixty-two, sixty-three was boarded up, and then they rang the bell of apartment sixty-five.

An elderly man inched open the door; he was wearing carpet slippers, a collarless shirt, and dark blue suspenders holding up his baggy trousers. Helen smiled warmly. "We are looking for Lena Klapps, nee Muller? I am Helen Masters, I called..."

The old man nodded, opened the door wider, and gestured for them to follow him. They were shown into a room where good antique furniture was commingled with a strange assortment of cheap modern chairs and a Formica-topped table. The room was dominated by an antique carved bookcase, covering two walls, its shelves stacked with paperbacks and old leather-bound books.

The old man introduced himself as Gunter Klapps, Lena's husband, and gestured for them to be seated. He stood at the door with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"She is late. The rain — there will be traffic jams. But she should be here shortly, excuse me!"

He closed the door, and Helen unbuttoned her coat. Louis stared around the room, looked at the threadbare carpet, then to the plastic-covered chairs. Helen placed her purse on the table. "Not exactly welcoming, was he?"

The baron flicked a look at his watch. "Maybe we should call the hotel?"

Helen nodded, and crossed to the door. She stood in the hallway, calling out for Lena's husband. The kitchen door was open, and he glared.

"Telephone — do you have a telephone I could use?"

"No, it's broken."

He continued to stare, so Helen returned to the room. The baron was still standing, his face set in anger.

"I hope this is not a wasted journey, I am worried about Vebekka, leaving her alone!"

"Their telephone is broken, shall I go out, make a call?"

He snapped: "No!" and then sat in one of the ugly chairs. Helen took off her coat, placing it over a typist's chair tucked into the table. She looked over the bookcase; some of the leather-bound volumes were by classical authors, but many of the books were medical journals. She was just about to mention the fact to Louis when they heard the front door open.

Lena Klapps walked in. She was much younger than her husband, but wore her hair in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. The gray hair accentuated her pale skin, and pale washed-out blue eyes. She spoke in German.

"Excuse me, I won't be a moment, my bus was held up in the rush hour traffic. May I offer you tea?"

The baron proffered his hand. "Nothing, thank you. I am Baron Louis Marechal."

Lena retreated quickly, saying she would just remove her coat and boots.

She returned a few moments later. She wore a white high-necked blouse, a gray cardigan, and gray pleated skirt. Her only jewelry was her wedding ring.

"I must apologize for my husband, he has been very ill."

She shook Helen's hand, and nodded formally to the baron, gesturing for him to remain seated. She then withdrew the typist's swivel chair, lifting Helen's coat and placing it across the table. She seemed to perch rather than sit, her knees pressed together, her hands clasped in front of her.

Helen looked to the baron, but he gave a small lift of his eyebrows as an indication she should open the conversation. She coughed, and chose her words carefully.

"The baron's wife, Vebekka Marechal — we are trying to trace her relatives, and as I said to you in my telephone call, we think she may have been your sister's daughter. Your sister was Rosa Muller?"

"Yes, that is correct."

Helen continued. "She married a David Goldberg?... and they lived in Canada and then Philadelphia, yes?"

"Yes, that is correct."

The baron cleared his throat. "Do you have a photograph of their daughter, of Rebecca Goldberg?"

"No, I lost contact with my sister before she left for Canada. I know they emigrated to Philadelphia, but we did not keep in touch. Her husband's cousin, a man named Ulrich Goldberg, wrote to me that she had passed away."

Helen bit her lip. "We need as much information as you can give us about Rebecca and obviously your sister."

Lena swiveled slightly in her seat. Her toes touched the ground, the folds of her pleated skirt falling to either side of her closed knees. She answered in English.

"I know nothing of... Rebecca, you say? I cannot help you."

"But Rosa was your sister?"

"Yes, Rosa was my sister."

Lena suddenly swiveled around to the bookshelf, reached over and took down a thick photograph album. She began to search through the pages of photographs. She spoke in heavily accented English, as if to prove a point — that she was aware of how uncomfortable they were.

"I find it somewhat strange that after forty years I am asked about Rosa! You say it is in reference to your wife, Baron? Is that correct?"

Helen went to stand by Lena. "The baroness is very ill, and we have come to see a specialist in East Berlin who may be able to help her. It is his suggestion that we should try and discover as much about her past as possible."

Lena nodded. "And this is Rebecca? Correct?... But there must be some confusion. She could not be my sister's child." She paused, turned back two pages, and then showed Helen the photograph.

"This was Rosa when she was seventeen, 1934."

Helen stared at the picture of an exceptionally pretty blond-haired teenager, with white ribbons in her hair, white ankle socks, and a school uniform. Next to her stood Lena, taller, fatter, and not nearly as pretty. She had been as stern-faced a teenager as she was now in middle age. Helen passed over the photograph album to the baron. Lena hesitated, her hand out, obviously not wanting the baron to take possession of the album. "That is the only photograph, there is no point in looking at any others."

"Lena, is there some way we could contact any of David Goldberg's friends or family, do you know if any of his relatives are still living in Berlin?" Helen asked.

"No. I did not know Rosa's husband, they met at the university. As I said, I have not spoken to my sister for more than forty years."

The baron turned over a few pages, and Lena got up and retrieved her book. She stared at the neatly laid-out photographs, some brown with age. "Berlin has seen many changes since these were taken. My family home—" She pointed to an elegant four-story house. "It was bombed, all our possessions, we lost everything but a few pieces, the other photographs are just my family, my mementos — nothing to do with Rosa!"

Lena held on to the book, touched it lovingly before she replaced it in the shelf, and then hesitated. "I agreed to see you, because I know Rosa was well off... as you can see, money is short — I thought perhaps she had made provisions for me. Obviously I was wrong." She stared from Helen to the baron and then, tight-lipped, remained standing. "I am sorry, but it seems very obvious that I cannot help you."

Helen reached for her coat, making as if to prepare to leave. "Rosa was a doctor? Is that correct?"

"She was a medical student, she did not finish her studies here, she continued in Canada, after the war." Lena folded her arms.

"Was her husband a doctor?"

Lena shook her head. "No, my father, my grandfather were also doctors..."

"But Rosa and David met at the university?"

"Yes, but he was studying languages, I believe. When they went to Canada, I heard he went in the fur business."

Helen looked at Louis, wishing he would say something, ask something; but he sat on the edge of his seat, obviously wanting to leave.

"Er... you said earlier that Rebecca could not have been Rosa's daughter... was she perhaps David Goldberg's daughter?"

"I don't know."

"But why are you so sure she could not have been Rosa's child?"

Lena pursed her lips, clenched her hands. She then carefully pushed her chair under the table. "Rosa could not have children."

Helen persisted. "Could you give me the reason?"

Lena faced her. "Because she had an abortion when she was seventeen years old, a backstreet abortion, paid for by that creature she ran off with and married. She nearly died, and she broke my father's heart. When he discovered her relationship, he would have nothing to do with her, he begged her to give David up, but she refused. He tried everything, he even kept her under lock and key to stop him from seeing her. She was obsessed by David and so she ran away, and my father never spoke to her again."

"This was when?"

Lena rubbed her head. "She ran off on the second of June, it was 1934, they ran away together, we discovered they had married."

"They went to Canada?"

"Yes, to Canada. His family were wealthy, they must have had contacts there to help him set himself up in business; they always help each other!"

Helen began to put her coat on. "Did they ever come back?"

Lena nodded. "I believe so, but not for a long time, not until after the war. The Goldbergs had property here!"

"So they came back to Berlin?"

"Yes, yes I believe so."

"And you didn't see him or speak to him?"

"No."

"Did you see Rosa when she came back?"

"No."

"And you cannot give us any clue as to any relatives?"

Lena stared hard at Helen, her eyes expressionless. "He had no one left, but a distant cousin, Ulrich Goldberg, who was already residing in the United States. Rosa never contacted her mother, never visited her father's, her brother's graves. As far as I am concerned, my sister died a long time ago, the day she ran away... Now I should be grateful if you would leave."

The baron gripped Helen's elbow, wanting to get out, but she stood firm. "Do you think your sister could have adopted Rebecca when she returned to Berlin? Could she have adopted a child then, knowing she could not have children of her own?"

Lena pushed past Helen and opened the door. "I have told you all I know, please leave now."

Helen snatched up her purse and walked out, as the baron folded money and handed it to Lena. "Thank you for your time, I appreciate it."

He followed Helen to the front door. Lena watched them, her hand clenched around the thick wad of folded bills.

The stale smell of cabbage filled the hallway as they hurried along the stone corridor.

"She worked in a hospital for three months... I don't know where, I have told you all I know..."

The baron guided Helen down the stairs, holding her elbow lightly in the crook of his hand. "The family album was interesting! Did you get a chance to see any of the other photographs? The father was like an SS officer, the brothers were all in uniform too." He shook his head. "Can you believe it? She wouldn't see her sister for forty-odd years, and then thinks she may have left her something!"

Helen stopped, turned to him.

"We can get Franks to check hospitals, and we can contact someone from the Canadian embassy, see if they can trace a birth certificate — but you know something, I don't think they'll find one, I think they adopted a child here. God knows there must have been thousands of children needing help."

Louis snapped angrily: "Unless Rebecca was Goldberg's child! Don't get too romantic about this, we may have the wrong woman."

"You don't really think so, do you? She was Rosa's sister."

Louis continued talking as they walked down the stairs. "But we don't know if this Rosa was Vebekka's mother, adopted or otherwise; we are just clutching at straws."

They came out from the apartment building, and their driver tooted his car horn, having parked across the street. Louis slapped his forehead. "Dear God, I'd forgotten him! I don't think I can stand his guided tours all the way back."

But Louis did seem more relaxed, even good-humored, now that they had left the apartment. They got into the car and Louis asked the driver to stop at the nearest telephone booth.

They drove only half a mile before he went to call the hotel to check on Vebekka. Helen watched him from the window, and then leaned back closing her eyes. She was sure the jigsaw was piecing together. The Mullers had turned their back on Rosa not because she was pregnant, but because the father of her child was a Jew.

Louis returned and signaled for the driver to move on.

"She has eaten, she is resting, and Hilda says she is calm, sleeping most of the time!"

As they crossed into East Berlin, their driver became even more animated. "You know the communist regime may have tried to squash artistic freedom but, like the West, we always had circuses — you like the circus? At one time it was all provided for, classical music, opera, everything was funded by the state. Now we have no funds to sustain the arts, all our artists, our best talent and producers run to the West... now a leading ballerina from the East Berlin Ballet is having to find work as a stripper to cover her rent, it's true!"

Helen leaned forward, trying to stop the constant flow of monologue, and asked if he had heard about the murder, the dwarf found in the hotel not far from the Grand Hotel.

The driver nodded his head vigorously. "Yes, yes I heard, the crime wave is unstoppable here, we don't have enough police... maybe he was working at the Artistenschule, you know, teaching circus acts. We have many famous circus performers from Berlin, you know there is a magnificent circus about to begin a new season — if you want, I get you tickets, I have contacts..."

The car drew up outside the hotel, and still the driver talked. "I have many contacts for nightclubs, for shows, if you want something risque — you know what I mean — I can arrange..."

He had exhausted them both. Helen rang for the elevator while the baron inquired at the desk for any letters or calls. He was handed a package, just arrived by Federal Express.

Standing next to the baron was Inspector Torsen Heinz, who gave him no more than a cursory glance; he was more interested in the contents of the envelope.

Torsen was mentally adding up the cost of the small salad he had eaten in the hotel bar. He'd never have another. It had not even been fresh or served well, but it had cost more than five times his usual cheese on rye at lunch.

Torsen had been waiting patiently over half an hour for the manager to give him a list of residents who had arrived at the Grand Hotel from Paris on or near the night of Kellerman's murder. The baron and Helen stepped into the elevator as the manager bustled across the foyer, gesturing for the inspector to follow him.

The manager ushered Torsen into his private office, then closed his door. "I have had to speak to the director of the hotel about this matter, I am afraid you place us in a very difficult situation. We do have guests, and they are from Paris, but whether or not I can ask..."

Torsen opened his notebook officiously. "I have been able to gain a positive identification of the murdered man, sir, and I will require from you the date these guests arrived. Does it coincide with the dates I gave to you?"

"Yes, yes, but these guests are Baron Marechal, his wife, a nurse, and I think his wife's physician, a Dr. Helen Masters."

Torsen closed his book. "Could I speak with the baron?"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, his wife has not been well, and she is resting in their suite. I really don't like to disturb them. Perhaps if you return in the morning, I will speak to the baron; he is not available right now."

"He just came in."

"Excuse me?"

"I said the baron just arrived at the reception desk, I saw him."

The manager tightened his lips, referred again to the conversation he had just had with the director, and suggested Torsen return in the morning. In the meantime, he would speak to the baron.

Torsen was ushered out into the elegant foyer, and checked the time on the clock behind the reception desk. He wondered whether he could squeeze in a quick visit to his father before interviewing the janitor at Kellerman's hotel. It had started to rain again, and the inspector decided he would treat himself to a taxi. He asked the doorman to call him one, but then he saw that one was waiting by the door.

The baron and Helen's driver was snoozing, but he jumped to attention when Torsen tapped on his window. Torsen gave the address of his father's nursing home, and was treated to a detailed account of the rise in price of facilities for the elderly. "This city will be in deep trouble — you know why?"

Torsen made no reply, knowing it would make no difference.

"The avalanche of poverty-stricken immigrants is heading this way. Our young have all flown to the West. I was telling the baron, he was in my cab today, I was telling him about the circus, the Artistenschule, once the most famous in the world for training circus performers. It'll close, mark my words, it'll close."

Torsen frowned. "Did the baron ask about the circus?"

The driver nodded. "We were discussing the murder, the dwarf, he was asking about the murder!"

Torsen listened, interested now, and instructed the driver to change direction, he wanted to go to the Artistenschule.

The driver did a manic U-turn in the center of the road. "Okay, you're the boss... I said to the baron, I said, they'll never find the killer."

"Why is that?" asked Torsen.

"Because we've got a load of amateurs running our Polizei, they never made any decisions before, they were told who to arrest and who not to, you can't change that overnight... This is it... main door is just at the top of those steps."

Torsen fished in his pockets for loose change, then asked for a receipt. The driver drew out a grubby square notepad, no taxi number or official receipt. "How much do you want me to put on this? Traveling salesman are you?"

Torsen opened his raincoat to reveal his uniform. "No... I just need to give it to my Leitender Polizei Direktor!"

The driver said nothing, scribbled on his notepad, and shook Torsen's hand — too hard, too sincerely. For a brief moment Torsen saw a fear pass over his face, and then it was gone — so was the Mercedes in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. In the old days he could have been arrested for slandering the state!

Torsen knocked on the small door marked office private underlined twice. He waited, tapped again, and eventually heard shuffling sounds; then a rasping voice bellowed to an animal to get out of the way. The door opened, and Torsen was confronted by a massive man wearing a vest and tracksuit bottoms. Clasping his hand was a chimp, they rather resembled each other, the vest hardly hiding the man's astonishing growth of body hair.

Fredrick Lazars beckoned Torsen to follow him, saying he was just eating his dinner. Torsen was motioned to sit on a rickety chair, covered in dog hairs, as Lazars sat the chimp in a high baby chair. He brought a big tin bowl and a large spoon. He tipped what looked like porridge into the bowl, and then took out of the oven a plate piled with sausages, onions, and mashed potatoes. He offered to share his dinner with Torsen. It looked as if the man had already started dinner; the sausages were half eaten. Torsen refused politely, saying that he had just dined, and then added, "at the Grand Hotel!" He did not mention that it was just a small salad, and as Lazars didn't seem impressed, he dropped the subject. Lazars opened two bottles of beer and handed one to Torsen as the chimp flicked its spoon, splattering Torsen's uniform with porridge.

The chimp, only two years old, was called Boris, but was really a female — all this was divulged in a bellow from a food-filled mouth.

"Did Tommy Kellerman come to see you?"

The big hands broke up large hunks of bread, dipping them into his fried onions. "He did... the night he died."

Torsen took out his notebook, asked for a pencil, and Lazars bellowed at Boris, who climbed down and went to an untidy desk. The chimp threw papers around. "Pencil... PENCIL BORIS!" Torsen was half out of his seat, ready to help Boris, when a pencil was shoved at him, but Boris wouldn't let go of it and a tug of war ensued. Finally Lazars whacked Boris over the head and told her to finish her dinner. Boris proceeded to spoon in large mouthfuls of the porridge substance, dribbling it over the table, herself, and the floor.

"Kellerman came to see me about six, maybe nearer seven."

"Why have you not come forward with this evidence?"

"He came, he ate half my dinner and departed, what's there to tell in that?"

Torsen scribbled in his book. "So what time did he leave?"

Lazars sniffed, gulped at his beer. "He stayed about three quarters of an hour, said he had some business he was taking care of, important business."

"What did you do after he left? Or did you accompany him?"

"No, he left on his own, I stayed here."

"Do you have any witnesses to substantiate this?"

"Yep, about two hundred, we were giving a display, just a few kids trying out, but I started at eight-thirty, maybe finished around ten or later, then we had an open discussion... finished after twelve, we went on to O'Bar, about six of us, then we stayed there..."

Torsen held up his hand: "No, no more... if you could just give me some names who can verify all this."

Lazars reeled off the names as Boris banged her plate, splashing Torsen with more of her food. She started screeching for more, and when she got it she gave Lazars a big kiss as a thank-you.

"I love this little lady... mother died about a year ago. Well, she's moved in with me until I find someone to buy her."

Torsen asked Lazars what he knew of Kellerman's background, and the massive man screwed up his face, his resemblance to Boris becoming even more staggering.

"He was an unpleasant little bastard, nobody had a good word to say about him, always borrowing, you know the kind, he'd touch a blind beggar for money, but, well, he'd had a tough life... you forgive a lot."

"Did he ever work here?"

"Yeah, long time ago, I mean a really long time ago, early fifties I think. He turned up one day, sort of learned a few tricks, just tumbling and knockabout stuff, but he never had the heart... got to have a warm heart to be a clown, you know? Kellerman, he was different, he was never... I dunno, why speak ill of the dead, huh?"

"It may help me find his killer. Somebody hated him enough to give him a terrible beating."

Lazars lifted Boris up and carried her to the dish-piled sink. He took a cloth and ran it under the water, rinsed it, and wiped Boris's face.

"Look, Kellerman was a bit crazy, you know? Mixed up. He hated his body, his life, his very existence. Kellerman was somebody that should have been suffocated when he was born. He couldn't pass a mirror without hating himself. And yet when he was younger — it was tragic — he looked like a cherub. Like a kid. See, when he first came here he must have been in his twenties."

Torsen nodded, finishing the dregs of his beer. Boris, her face cleaned, now wanted her hands washed.

"I'm trying to train her to do the washing up!" roared Lazars, laughing at his own joke. "But she's too lazy!! Like me!"

Lazars sat Boris down, and cut a hunk of cheese for himself. "The women went for him, always had straight women — you know, normal size."

Torsen hesitated. "I met his ex-wife..."

Lazars cocked his head to one side. "She's a big star now, doesn't mix with any of us, but then who's to blame her, she's been worldwide with the Grimaldi act. He's a nice enough bloke, part Russian, part Italian — hell of a temper, nice man, but I'm not sure about Ruda... but then who's sure about anybody?"

Torsen flicked through his notebook.

"Did you know them when they were married?"

"No, not really. I don't to tell you the truth even know where she came from, I think she used to work the clubs, but don't quote me. Kellerman just used to turn up, we never knew how he did it. I think he was into some racket with forged documents, he seemed to be able to cross back and forth with no problems. We had a bit of a falling out about it, you know he'd come over here, check over the acts — next minute they'd upped and left. I think he made his money that way, you know — paid for fixing documents and passports. He always had money, not rich, but never short of cash either in those early days, so I just put two and two together. He had a place over in the Kreuzberg district, so he must have had contacts. Not circus people, he was only attached to circuses because of his deformity — when he couldn't make cash on rackets, he joined up with a circus."

Torsen rubbed his head. "Did he have money when you last saw him?"

Lazars shook his head. "No, he was broke, told me he had been in jail but I knew that anyway. All he said was he had some business deal going down. Maybe he'd got in with the bad guys again, who knows? I do know he let a lot of people down..."

"How do you mean?"

"Promises, you know, he'd get them over the border, promise to get them work. They'd pay up front, end up over there, and no Kellerman — he'd pissed off. Any place he turned up you could guarantee there would be someone waiting to give him a hiding.

"Or kill him?"

Lazars had Boris on his knee; the chimp was sucking at her thumb like a tiny baby, her round eyes drooping with tiredness. Torsen reached for his raincoat; it was covered with animal hairs. "There is just one more thing, then I'll get out of your way."

Lazars stood up, resting Boris on his hip. She was fast asleep.

Torsen almost whispered, afraid to wake Boris.

"Do you recall a tattoo on his left arm?"

Lazars nodded, and the bellowing voice was a low rumble. "I remember it, they are the ones you never forget."

Torsen waited, and Lazars sighed. "Maybe that was why we all put up with his shit. Tommy Kellerman was in Auschwitz, the tattoo was his number."

For once the rain had ceased and Torsen could take a bus to Kellerman's hotel. He sat hunched in his seat, making notes in his book. He wrote a memo for Rieckert and himself to visit Ruda Kellerman and question her again. He underlined it twice. She had lied about Kellerman's tattoo, she must have known what it was. He closed his eyes, picturing Ruda Kellerman as she touched the dead man's hair at the morgue that afternoon.

He spent the rest of the journey mulling over why she would have lied, but came to no conclusion. He stared from the grimy window of the bus at a group of punks kicking empty cans of beer along the street. They had flamboyantly blue and red hair; they wore torn black leather jackets, and black boots that clanked and banged the cans along the street. He felt old, tired out; bogged down, trying to find the killer of a man nobody seemed to care about. Was it all a pointless waste of time? The men at the station had inferred that it was; nobody else there would put in any overtime to help him.

He interrupted himself, swearing. He should have asked Lazars if the dinner he had shared with Kellerman was a hamburger and fries! He'd have to call in the morning, and again he swore — he couldn't call him before nine because his switchboard wasn't connected until then. He also wanted a telephone.

Torsen began another of his lists. He was going to start throwing his weight around — he wanted a patrol car for his own personal use, plus fuel allowance, and, as of tomorrow, he was going to work out a schedule, none of this nine-to-five from now on. They would work as they did in the West, day and night, around the clock.

The bus rumbled on, and Torsen sniffed his hands. They smelled of Boris, he smelled of Boris, and the remains of the chimp's food had hardened into flecks all over his jacket. The bus shuddered to a halt, and Torsen stepped down, checking the time, sure the janitor must have started work by now.

He headed for Kellerman's hotel, passing the ornate and well-lit Grand Hotel entrance, hurrying down the back streets, mentally tallying up how many girls he saw lurking in the dark, dingy doorways, even wondering if any one of them had seen the killer. But he didn't approach the girls because he was alone, and didn't want his intentions to be misconstrued. He made a mental note to add to his lists... check out the call girls. No doubt Rieckert would jump at the chance.

The baron had ordered dinner in his suite, and the manager himself had overseen the menu. He bowed and scraped at the lavish tip. The baron thanked him for his discretion. He would of course speak with the director of the police. He shut the door, sighing, and turned to Helen.

"This place is unbelievable — they want me to meet with someone from the police, because we arrived from Paris on the same night that circus dwarf was murdered!"

Helen frowned, but said nothing; she was sifting through the package of letters and photographs that had just been delivered. She held up a small blurred snapshot.

"I am sure this is Rosa Muller, she's even got the same pigtails, and you can see where the photo's been cut in two, so maybe we were right after all... Louis?"

He sat beside her. "Yes, yes... I hear you."

Helen pointed out the cut edge of the photograph, sent by the baron's chauffeur from the United States. "I am sure Lena was on this photograph... it's very similar to the one she showed us, and just look at the other snapshot, Louis, I'm sure it's Vebekka."

Louis looked yet again at the snapshot of a girl in school uniform who was glaring at the camera. She had two thick plaits, her hands were clenched at her sides. And she was exceptionally plump, her face, even her legs seemed rounded.

"I just don't now."

Helen took the photograph. "We could always ask her, show it to her?"

Louis snapped. "No, I don't want her upset, I don't want anything to upset her, she's calm, she's sleeping, she's eating, she's going to see Franks tomorrow. You talk to him about it, see what he says, I just don't want these games we're playing to upset—"

"Games?... Louis, we're not playing games, for God's sake."

He shoved the papers aside. "I used the wrong word then, but we have come here to have Vebekka see Franks, she's agreed, now all this detective work..."

Helen pushed back her chair. "This detective work was, if you recall, specifically requested by Franks himself. I don't understand your attitude, you don't know anything about her past, and you have said it is your priority to find out whether there is any history of mental instability in Vebekka's family. But, Louis, unless we try and trace her goddamned family, how do you expect to find out?"

Louis rubbed his brow, his mouth a tight hard line. "Perhaps some things are best not uncovered..."

"Like what?"

He stared at the ceiling. "I don't know... but all these photographs, this woman this afternoon, what have we gained? We still know nothing of Vebekka's family. Her mother or adopted mother is dead, her father or adopted father is dead — how can they tell us what, as you said, is my priority? And it is not just my priority, but my sons', my daughters'." He sighed. "Look, maybe I'm just tired, it's been a long day."

Helen carefully gathered the photographs together, the letters from Ulrich Goldberg, the lists of Goldbergs she had contacted to trace Lena, and stuffed them into the large brown envelope.

"Perhaps you're right. I think I'm tired too, maybe I'll make it an early night."

The baron poured himself a brandy. "Do you want one?"

"No, thank you, I'll look in on Vebekka if you like."

"No, that's all right, Hilda's staying overnight, she's using Anne Marie's old room."

"What time are the police coming?"

"First thing in the morning."

"I'd like to sit in on the meeting, if I may, just out of interest. What time will Rebecca be going to Dr. Franks?"

"Vebekka!"

"What... oh I'm sorry, what time is her appointment with Franks?"

Louis shrugged as he lit a cigar and began puffing it alight. "I doubt if it will be before ten, he has set aside the entire morning."

"Good night then."

He looked at her, then inclined his head. "Good night!"

Louis noticed she took the envelope with her; it irritated him slightly, but he dismissed it. He turned the television set on, and switched from channel to channel. Hilda came out of Vebekka's bedroom.

"She is sleeping!"

He smiled warmly. "Good, you are very good for her, and I am grateful for your assistance. Also for agreeing to stay. Thank you!"

Hilda crossed the room, head bowed, and slipped into Anne Marie's room. As she went into the small adjoining bathroom, she could hear a bath being run from Helen Masters's suite.

Helen wrapped the thick hotel towel robe around herself, and then sat at the writing desk, taking the photographs out, studying them and staring at the wall. She picked up the photograph of the plump schoolgirl, turning it over. On the back was written, in childish scrawl, Rebecca.

She stared at the photograph angrily, and then let it drop onto the desk. Why was she so angry? Why?

She looked again at the photograph, and this time she took a sheet of paper and held it across the bottom part of the child's face, hiding the nose and mouth. They were Vebekka's eyes, she knew it!

Inspector Heinz had to wait at Kellerman's hotel until after eleven o'clock for the janitor to come on duty. He stood waiting impatiently as the scruffy man rummaged through the trash bins in the alleyway. Eventually, and very disgruntled at his work being interrupted, he led Torsen to where he recalled seeing the tall, well-built man. He pointed from the alley toward the street — not, as Torsen had thought, the other way around.

"But it's well-lit, you must have gotten a good look."

"I wasn't paying too much attention, I'd just started work. I clear the trash cans at a number of hotels around this area, I don't start working until after ten, but I remember seeing him, and he was walking fast, carrying this big bag — a sort of carryall."

This was evidence not before divulged. The janitor was able after some deliberation to describe a dark hat, like a trilby, worn by the man. "It was shiny, sort of caught the light, yes, it was black and shiny."

"Did you see his face?" Torsen asked.

The janitor shook his head and asked if he could continue his work. Torsen nodded, standing a moment longer as the man turned on a hose and began to wash down the alley.

It was almost twelve, but Ruda worked on. She cleaned around the sides of the sink, then rinsed out the cloths, filled a bucket of water, and carried it to the chopping table. She scrubbed the surface, shaking the brush, dipping it into the boiling water. Her mind raced. Had she covered all possible tracks, all possible connection to the murder? As hard as she tried to concentrate, she knew, could feel something else was happening. It had begun in the hotel, when she was sick in the toilets. Why did she feel the compulsion to return to that hotel? She hurled the brush into the bucket, yanked the bucket up, slopping water over the floor and herself as she tipped it down the drain... white tiles, splashes of red, bloody water... white tiles. The same tingling started. Her hands, the nape of her neck, the dryness in her mouth. She rubbed her hands dry on the rough towel, then, as she threw it into the skip used for the laundry, she saw the bloody towels and cloths and caught her breath. It wasn't Tommy, it wasn't the murder, it was something else.

She swore, muttering louder, she must not allow this to happen. She had controlled it her whole life, she would not allow it to break into her mind, not now, and she punched out at the walls, punched with all her strength. But nothing would make the memory subside, return it to the secure, locked box in her mind. Her fists slammed against the wall, and she turned her fury to Kellerman: It was his fault, all his fault... Why did he have to come back? Why now? But Ruda knew it was not Kellerman who was back. It was the past.

Louis was sitting in a comfortable chair, a magazine in his hands; he was wearing half-moon glasses, but he had been unable to concentrate. The glasses took Helen by surprise, she had never seen him wearing them. It was a moment before he realized she was in the room.

"Can't you sleep?" he asked softly.

Helen glanced at the clock on the mantel — it was after twelve, she hadn't thought it was so late. "No, no I can't. I'm sorry, it's very late but..."

He put his fingers to his lips, then indicated Vebekka's room. He gave no indication of his surprise at Helen's intrusion, but he was nonetheless taken aback; she was wearing only a rather flimsy nightgown, her robe was undone, and her feet were bare.

"She's sleeping, she looks very well."

"Good, I'm glad."

Helen sat on the edge of the sofa. "Louis, I need to ask you something, I am just not sure how to phrase it..."

"Do you want a brandy?"

"No, nothing thank you." She stared at his slippered feet, suddenly aware that in her haste she had not put on her own slippers. "Vebekka has said repeatedly that she is afraid of hospitals, nurses, and doctors in white coats, yes?"

He nodded, pouring a glass for her. He went over to the sofa and held it out. "Here. It'll help you sleep."

Helen took the glass, cupping it in her hands. "So even though she was afraid of needles, of doctors, she had plastic surgery — to her nose, her face? I read it in Dr. Franks's reports."

He frowned. "Yes. It was not extensive, and I suppose when she had it done she was well. I never thought of it. It was done in a private clinic in Switzerland, the first time, and then I think in New York."

"Were you with her on these occasions?"

He touched his brow, coughed lightly. "The first time, but not the second. She had no adverse effects; quite the contrary — she was very pleased with the results. She's always been very conscious of her looks."

Helen sipped the brandy. "The photograph is of Vebekka, Louis, the girl may be plump, fat, but her eyes — I recognize her eyes. She could never change her eyes."

He slowly stubbed out his cigar, his back to her. Helen took another sip of the brandy; she licked her lips. "But that is not what I wanted to ask you."

As he turned to face her, he removed his glasses, carefully placing them in a case.

Standing up, she put her glass down. "I think you were, to begin with, prepared to try and discover everything about her background until..."

He moved closer. "Until what?"

She looked at him, met his dark blue eyes. "Until you heard the name Goldberg..."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Helen backed further away from him. "I know how important your family is, your family heritage, I know you have put up with your wife's illness because they would not approve of a divorce."

"They?" He said it quietly, but with such sarcasm. "My dear Helen, I am the family, I am the head of the family, and I can't for the life of me think what you are trying to say."

"I think you know, Louis."

He shook his head in disbelief, and then walked to the windows, drawing the drapes to one side. "You really think I would care?"

Helen cleared her throat. "I think the old baroness would have, perhaps your father; it was common knowledge he allowed the Gestapo to take over your villas."

He patted the curtains into place. "I think, Helen, you should try and get some sleep, before you say or insinuate anything else."

"You have not answered me."

He was at her side, gripping her arm so tightly it hurt. "You know nothing, nothing, and your inference insults me, insults my family."

She dragged her arm free. "It's always your precious family. I think you, Louis, hate the thought of your precious family being Jewish, as much as you hate the thought of producing more insanity!"

His slap sent her staggering backward, she cried out more with shock than pain. He rushed to her, touched her reddened cheek. "Oh my God, I'm sorry... but you don't understand."

Helen put her hand up to indicate for him not to come close. He flushed, and gestured another apology with his hands. "I am so sorry."

She watched as he took out his handkerchief, touched his lips, the brow of his head, and then crossed to the window and unhooked the shutter. He remained with his back to her as he reached through the half-open shutter to the window.

"I don't care if Vebekka is Jewish, how could I? She's the mother of my children, I care only about their future." He opened the window, breathed the cold night air, but still seemed loath to turn and face her.

Helen twisted her ring around her finger. "Then surely you can understand my confusion — why don't you want to try and find out as much as possible, Louis? Please, look at the photograph, look at it."

He walked briskly to the table and snatched up the photograph where Helen had left it. He turned the photograph over, then let it drop back onto the polished wood surface. He saw the childish looped writing, the name Rebecca.

"Helen, if she is this little girl, if she is in some way connected to that dreadful woman this evening, to these people in Philadelphia, then we must do whatever you think is right. But please don't ask me to show enthusiasm. Show this photo to my wife, if you wish, or preferably ask Franks to, because if she looks at it and admits it is her, then she has lied to me, to everyone. Let Franks do it, but don't ask me to..."

"Don't you see, Louis? It is the reason why she has lied that may be important — it has to be, and when we discover why, maybe..."

He snapped then, his face taut with controlled anger.

"Maybe what? Everything will fall into place? Have you any idea, any knowledge of how often I have hoped for that? Let Dr. Franks handle this photograph and any further developments."

"As you wish!"

As Helen crossed to the door, he said her name very quietly, making her turn.

"I obviously appreciate all you are doing for my wife, and any financial costs to yourself will be met. I had no conception of how, well, how much we would be seeing of each other, or how much my own personal life would be placed under scrutiny. I ask you, please, to realize at all times you are privy to very private emotions, traumas — whichever terminology you wish to use. But please do remember that you are my guest, and that you are here because my wife asked you to accompany us. You are therefore free to leave at any time you wish to do so."

Helen felt as if he had slapped her face for a second time; his cold aloofness deeply embarrassed her.

"I arranged my vacation so that I could spend time here..."

"How very kind... but I will as I said make sure you incur no extra costs. Now, if you don't mind my asking, in future, if you wish to join me in my suite, you will be good enough to dress accordingly: Hotels are notoriously scandalous places. My wife has already managed exceptionally well in making a spectacle of herself since we arrived."

Helen gave a brief smile of apology. "Anything we have discussed is, and will remain, completely confidential. Good night Baron!"

He saw the glint in her eyes, and flushed, moving back to the shutters once more. He switched off the lights, leaving the shutter ajar, the streetlamps outside giving the only light in the spacious drawing room.

Helen would never know what a raw nerve she had touched, he assured himself. His mother had accused him of marrying not only a fortune hunter, but a Jewish bitch, with no breeding, no education, just a pretty face. She had ranted at him, shouting that men in his position took women like Vebekka as mistresses, never as wives, and the reason the bitch had never let him make love to her before marriage was because the promise of sex was all she had to lure him.

Louis could see his perfectly coiffured mother turning to gesture with her cane at the paintings, the tapestries. "Your father would turn in his grave... she is a tramp! And you cannot see it. What kind of name is Vebekka? Eh? Tell me that. I tell you, she is trouble. Marry your own kind, Louis, marry a woman who can run this estate, bring money to this estate, marry a woman who will make a wife."

Louis had ignored his mother and had married Vebekka. Later, when he had confronted her with a fait accompli — knowing it was too late for her to do anything about it — his mother had opened her Louis XIV writing desk and tossed a thick manila envelope at his feet.

"You should have checked on her background before you acted so rashly, now it's too late. You have made your bed, so you must sleep on it. I hope for your sake it works, because there can and never will be a divorce, I don't want the family name dragged through the courts and the press. I don't want to know about your private life, that is your business; my grandson must be protected, and if you want your inheritance, you will, in future, do as I ask."

Louis had known all those years she was really Rebecca Goldberg, but he had chosen never to confront her with what he knew. He had burned the contents of the private investigator's notes, and then left for a trip abroad.

Now the ghosts were catching up with him. His eldest son, wanting to marry, needed to know whether his mother was clinically insane. He also had to wait for the old baroness's inheritance to be released, to see whether he would be socially accepted by the family of his fiancée: She was one of the richest heiresses in France.

The entire family had always waited for the old baroness to die, most of all Louis. His fortune had not been released thus far.

Louis laughed softly; his whole life had been spent waiting. His mother had tied the bulk of the family fortune in trust funds for his children, leaving Louis an allowance for life. His second son was courting a daughter of a rich German industrialist, while his eldest daughter was engaged to a Brazilian multimillionaire. He laughed again, a soft humorless laugh. The promise of a massive fortune in the future was their cross in life!

Dear Helen, how very little she knew. Louis had been able to live in luxury and to create one of the finest polo stables in the world, only because of David and Rosa Goldberg's inheritance. It wasn't his money that he squandered so lavishly, but Vebekka's.

He yawned, and rubbed his hands. He felt chilly, the window was still open. As he reached to draw the shutters closed he saw a figure standing close to the brick wall opposite the Grand Hotel. He could not see if it was a man or woman, just a dark outline leaning against the wall, waiting. He paid no further attention, thinking it was probably a prostitute from the red light district.

Ruda stared at the window, saw the light being extinguished. Her eyes flicked to the next window; it was dark. What had compelled her to return to this hotel in the middle of the night? What was here? She felt cold as she walked slowly to the taxi stand, and stepped inside a waiting cab... giving one last look at the dark window, the window with the shutters firmly closed.

Her driver was a small withered-looking man, who seemed delighted to have a fare at that hour. "Do you know what night it is tonight?"

Ruda lit a cigarette, and did not reply.

"Tonight is November the tenth. In 1938 Nazi mobs destroyed Jewish property, murdered a number of Jews, and arrested thirty thousand. They paved the way for the Holocaust. It was Kristall-nacht — the Night of the Shattering Glass. And tonight, you know what is happening in Leipzig? Fighting! Hundreds arrested, the outbreak of violence is a nightmare. Some of my friends have gone there, for business, but me? Nobody will shatter the windows of my cab."

Ruda closed her eyes, she remained silent and motionless in the center of the backseat, aware of his dark eyes watching her in his mirror — suspicious, darting black eyes.

Back at the circus she paid him, leaning into his cab as he carefully counted the change. Suddenly she touched his cheek.

"Keep it. If they break your windshield, you get a new one..."