Read The Murderer in Ruins Online

Authors: Cay Rademacher

The Murderer in Ruins (5 page)

There were, however, a lot of people about; men, women, children, washed-out coats strolling about apparently aimlessly on the street at the corner of Reeperbahn and Hamburger Berg, wandering around in circles, looking up at the sky. Black marketeers. As the three investigators approached, the crowd drifted away from them, as if they carried the plague. Stave cursed under his breath: it’s that bloody British uniform. On his own he could have wandered around unnoticed. But under the circumstances he could only watch as bottles of schnapps or cartons of cigarettes disappeared beneath coats while women and children turned their backs and a few lads disappeared down the alleyways. The only ones who actually came up to them were two young girls, about 18, Stave reckoned, not even proper adults. Blond, polecat furs around their necks, easy smiles, only a few dozen metres away, coming straight towards them.

The chief inspector walked a few paces down the Reeperbahn, more out of sorts than ever. The David police station had survived unscathed, to the annoyance of Hamburg pimps. The Zillertal had survived the hail of bombs, as had a few other establishments, Onkel Hugos Speisrestaurant, the Alcazar and a few dozen metres further towards Talstrasse, the Kamsing, Hamburg’s only Chinese restaurant, which even these days offered fiery soups and exotically spiced rice, though from God knows what ingredients. But the thought of the Kamsing made Stave feel hungry. He made a decision.

‘There’s no point in this,’ he told the other two. ‘The streetwalkers will come up and talk to us, but everybody else clears off.’

‘Better than the other way round,’ MacDonald said, smiling at the two girls.

I’m going to lose it with him here in broad daylight, if I don’t take care, Stave thought.

‘We’ll split up,’ he ordered. ‘Lieutenant, you and I will go into the local establishments and quiz the clientele. Maschke, you stay out on the street and question the girls and their pimps. We’ll meet up in two hours in the David police station.’

At least that way he was getting the British officer out of the limelight. He was fed up with everybody staring at them. MacDonald would stick out just as much in the bars and strip clubs, but nobody can do a runner quite so easily there. Maschke could question the girls and pimps more inconspicuously by himself. It also meant he would have to spend a couple of hours freezing outside while Stave and the Englishman could at least warm themselves up, going round the bars and clubs. Stave smiled to himself for the first time in hours.

They nodded farewell to Maschke, then turned to walk away, before the two blondes got to them. One of the girls gave them a disappointed look, the other seemed as if she wanted to shout something a lot less friendly at them. But then both opened their eyes wide.

‘Bonjour mesdemoiselles,’
Maschke purred.
‘Vous avez la bonne chance de trouver un vrai cavalier.’

Stave realised the girl had recognised him as being from the vice squad. Too late, darling. And he wondered on the side where his colleague had learnt to speak such good French. He watched as Maschke pulled out his police ID and shoved it under the girls’ noses. The he dragged MacDonald over to the door of the Zillertal and pushed it open.

The air was stale with the sour aroma of old, cold tobacco, cheap schnapps and cabbage soup. Most of the tables were empty. At one four old men with red faces sat with water glasses containing some clear liquid. Two tired-looking girls at the next table were pretending not to hear the suggestive comments being made towards them, preferring to warm their skinny hands on steaming enamel bowls of cabbage soup. There were two young men at a table to the rear of the room, in expensive overcoats – from before the war certainly – and good shoes. They were smoking American cigarettes and glanced
briefly at Stave and MacDonald, then turned away, whispering to one another. Black marketeers.

The landlord was at the bar. He wasn’t old yet, but he had been fat once and now the skin of his cheeks sagged in folds. He quickly removed a few unmarked bottles from the counter, and hid them in a flash. The sale and distribution of alcohol was strictly regulated, but everybody knew that the barkeepers of St Pauli offered smuggled or home-made schnapps as ‘mineral water’.

Not my problem, Stave told himself, and went up to the landlord, who was looking even paler than he had done when they came in.

He pulled out his ID, then held the photo of the dead girl in front of his face: ‘Ever seen her before?’

The man looked at him, then at the ID, and then MacDonald, as if he hoped the latter might save him. But the Brit was no longer smiling; he was staring back at the man coldly, Stave realised. Like a hangman, he thought to himself, and suddenly wondered if it wasn’t just because of MacDonald’s good German that he had been delegated to the investigation. Perhaps he had other skills. Eventually the landlord gave up hoping and turned his concentration to the photo, looking slightly ill, then shook his head.

‘Don’t know her. Who is she?’

‘Thank you,’ Stave said, turning away.

‘Let’s ask the lads with the cigarettes,’ he whispered to MacDonald. ‘But keep an eye on the two ladies supping away at their soup. We don’t want them to do a runner on us.’

‘What if they go to the ladies’?’

‘You go with them.’

Stave had reached the table at the back of the room. The two black marketeers still had their backs to him, even though they had obviously noticed him long ago.

Stave pulled up a chair without asking them and sat down. MacDonald stayed standing a few steps behind him.

Eventually the chief inspector looked the two lads in the eyes: they were clean-shaven, well fed, with hard eyes and sarcastic smiles
on their faces. Lads barely 20 years old, but they had already seen everything thanks to the war. Murderous brats. Stave had to suppress the urge to arrest them then and there. Instead he just pulled out, as before, his ID and the photo, showing both to the pair of them.

‘Do you know this young lady?’ he asked politely.

For a second or two, the pair were so taken aback that the grins fell from their faces. They expected different questions from a policeman: about cigarettes, money, medicines; the usual interrogation faced by black marketeers. Stave watched them visibly relax.

‘No,’ the taller one said, adding, ‘sorry.’

His companion took a few seconds longer, but he too then shook his head. ‘Not one of the girls on the Reeperbahn, that’s for sure, Chief Inspector.’

‘A customer, perhaps?’ He didn’t need to add, on the black market.

The two of them quickly exchanged glances, then decided they would answer the question properly: ‘It’s not all that easy to remember faces, if you know what I mean,’ the taller one said. ‘So I can’t be 100 per cent certain, but I don’t think I’ve seen her.’

‘She was certainly pretty,’ the other one remarked, as if that had anything to do with it.

Stave closed his eyes. He believed the two black marketeers, and also the landlord – this wasn’t going well. ‘Thanks,’ he said amicably. As he got to his feet he realised how tired he was. He would have preferred to stay there, drinking a round or two with the two of them. Absurd.

‘We’ll ask the girls, then we’re out of here,’ he told MacDonald.

‘What about the boozers over there?’

‘Fine, you go talk to four heroes. I’ll talk to the girls.’

‘I’d have preferred it the other way around,’ whispered MacDonald, but he gave a little smile and walked over to the men with the glasses of ‘water’.

‘What’s up then, Master of the Watch?’ the older of the two asked as Stave came over.

She’s been watching me, he thought, and knows I’m no punter.
Smart girl. He studied the girls for a moment or two. The older girl grinned cheekily back at him, the younger looked embarrassed. They were early or mid-twenties. About the same age as the murder victim.

‘Your colleague there looks keen,’ the older one said, pointing towards the window.

Stave followed her gaze and spotted Mashcke towering over some elderly miserable-looking prostitute.

‘I recognise your man with the red hair. He stops every woman who might be wearing a trace of lipstick because he can’t tell the difference between an elegant young lady and a streetwalker. One of these days he’s going to arrest the mayor’s daughter. But I don’t know you, nor your English companion.’

Stave didn’t bother showing them his ID, or telling them his name, but just pulled out the photograph. The older girl was moved, but the younger one went pale and held up a hand to her mouth in shock.

‘What bastard did that?’ the older one asked. Her accent was broad, and she drawled. From East Prussia, Stave reckoned.

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ he replied. ‘But I’d also like to know who the victim is.’

‘Never seen her.’

‘What about you?’ Stave asked handing the younger girl the photo.

‘I feel sick,’ she groaned. ‘I feel like throwing up. Take that away from me.’

Stave didn’t move. ‘You can throw up if you like, but only after you’ve told me whether or not you’ve ever seen this young woman.’

‘No,’ she almost screamed, then got to her feet and ran, bent over, to a grubby door to the rear of the room.

MacDonald leapt to his feet. To his horror Stave saw that the Brit had pulled a gun. Damned quick on the draw, he thought to himself, waving at the man to put it away. The lieutenant sat down again with the men, who’d all gone pale and were staring at him in terror.

‘Hildegard’s only been on the game a week,’ the older girl whispered, almost apologetically. ‘Where she comes from, they don’t see stuff like that every day.’

‘But you do?’

She gave a harsh laugh. ‘I came here in a refugee column from Breslau. I’ve seen so many corpses that a photo has no effect on me. Do you think she was a streetwalker?’

Stave had been about to answer gruffly that it was none of her business. But he could hear a kernel of fear underlying the cheekiness in her voice: the fear every street girl had that the next punter will want more than just a quickie round the corner.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked instead.

She hesitated a second, then whispered, ‘Ingrid Domin. As far as most of my customers are concerned, I’m Véronique. It sounds more erotic. French, you know?’ She made a scornful expression.

Stave thought back to the way Maschke had addressed the two street girls earlier. Then he dismissed the thought, tore a leaf from his notebook and scribbled on it: Tel 34 10 00. Extensions 8451–8454, and then his name.

‘Do me a favour: if you hear anything call me. Or come by the office.’ He added the number of his office. ‘Whatever, no matter how hysterical or crazy it might seem, just tell me. Promise?’

She agreed and quickly shoved the piece of paper into her handbag.

The chief inspector got to his feet. ‘I have no idea whether or not this woman was…’ he found himself looking for a suitable word, ‘…whether or not this lady belonged to your trade. Up until a few minutes ago, I had assumed so, but now I’m not so sure, which doesn’t mean that I’m ruling it out. So keep a look out. And talk it over with the other girls.’

‘I’m a tough girl, I can look out for myself,’ she said quietly. And smiled at him again

‘Looks like you’re lucky with the ladies,’ MacDonald said as he came over.

The corner of Stave’s mouth twitched. ‘One of them ran straight out of the room to throw up,’ he reminded the lieutenant.

‘But the other one was a lot nicer to you than the four old boozers over there were to me.’

‘So that was a waste of time too.’

‘Absolutely. Never seen her, though, that said, at least one of them was so drunk he wouldn’t have recognised his own mother.’

‘Happens more often than you might think – that children don’t recognise the corpses of their own mothers,’ Stave replied.

‘What now?’

‘We hit the next joint. Then the one after that, then the one after that…’

‘Good job there aren’t so many left then,’ MacDonald said. ‘Never thought I’d be so grateful to our Air Force comrades for their bombing raids.’

Stave said nothing, just pushed open the door.

 

A
n hour and a half later the pair of them walked through the door of Kamsing, the last venue on their list, with nothing to show. They had questioned half a dozen landlords, a few guests, at least 20 street girls, as many pimps and a few black marketeers. But not one of them admitted to knowing the dead woman.

‘Let me buy you one of these dreadful Chinese soups,’ MacDonald said. ‘They probably serve up monkey brains and rats’ tails.’

‘As long as it’s hot,’ Stave muttered gratefully and plonked himself down on a wobbly chair next to a little round table. Then he took a look around.

The restaurant was full, or at least fuller than the other places they’d gone round. Eight well-dressed young men were playing cards – poker – at a large table in an alcove. The notes on the table in front of them were thousand Reichsmark notes.

Bastards, Stave thought to himself, though he was only too well aware that his indignation was mainly fired by envy. Black marketeers gaming away their nights, gold watches on their wrists. His
colleague called them the black marketeers’ Iron Cross and had told Stave that they hid ration cards under the collars of their overcoats, and traded jewellery and medicine over the tables, wrapped in newspaper. But not yet, it was too early for that. Anyway, it wasn’t his problem. He slurped at his soup.

‘No idea what they use to spice this,’ MacDonald said between spoonfuls. ‘But it’s at least as warming as a single malt whisky.’

Stave didn’t bother telling the lieutenant that it had been years since he’d tasted even a drop of whisky. ‘Indeed,’ he muttered. At least he felt warm for the first time all day. His mouth was burning and numbed by exotic spices. He felt as if every muscle in his body was unwinding. If I don’t get to my feet, I’m going to fall asleep here and now in front of MacDonald, he thought as he forced himself to stand up.

‘Time to take the field. You do one half of the customers,’ he indicated a rough line through the middle of the room, ‘and I’ll deal with the rest. Meet you at the door.’

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