The Divided City Page 14

  “I notice the memorabilia behind you, sir,” said Reinhardt. He felt, more than saw, Weber’s twitch at Reinhardt’s use of sir.

  “Yes,” said von Vollmer, looking over his shoulder. “Mementos. Keepsakes from . . . different times.” There were a number of framed photos, including ones of von Vollmer with what looked like General Nares, the commander of the British sector, and with Arthur Werner and Otto Ostrowski, the previous and current mayors. Von Vollmer cast a considering eye over Reinhardt, dismissing Weber again without even a glance. “You served as well?”

  “In the army. Yourself?”

  “Air force.”

  “Air force,” Reinhardt repeated, a sudden thickness in his mouth.

  “Fighters,” said von Vollmer, a note of pride in his voice. He reached behind and picked up a plaque, a metal sigil, a bird of prey with lightning in its talons, mounted on a dark piece of wood.

  “What type?”

  “Night fighters.”

  “Dangerous work,” observed Reinhardt.

  “The most dangerous,” nodded von Vollmer, a glow of recollection in his eyes as he looked at the plaque. “But,” he said, as he put it carefully back, “necessary work. And at least, at night, we could say we ruled the dark. Not like the day, when the Americans would, quite literally, fill the skies. I participated in one or two daytime actions, you know,” he continued, warming to his memories and leaning back and onto one elbow, the leather of his chair creaking around him. “It was almost as if I could have gotten out of my plane and walked, there were that many of the devils.”

  “What squadron?”

  “A good one. The Night Hawks.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it.”

  “Of no moment,” said von Vollmer, loftily. “Work such as ours, it often went unnoticed. It was the work that counted. Not the recognition that might have been due.”

  “Oh, for . . .” Weber snorted, his eyes incredulous.

  “What was its designation?” Reinhardt stepped in, with a firm glance at Weber. “The squadron?”

  “Group, Inspector. It is a Group designation. III./NJG64.”

  Reinhardt sat straighter in his chair. Weber remained oblivious, too busy glowering at von Vollmer, not realizing it just made him seem like the ill-formed adolescent that in many ways he still was.

  “You’ll have to forgive my ignorance,” said Reinhardt, “but Luftwaffe designations mean nothing to me. Can you describe it?”

  “Of course,” replied von Vollmer, warming to a subject obviously still close to him. “The ‘N’ is for nacht. The ‘JG’ means jagdgeschwader. ‘Fighter wing.’ So ‘NJG’ means ‘night-fighter wing.’ The ‘III’ is the group designation within the wing. There were usually four groups to a wing. And ‘64’ is the wing’s number within the air force’s strength.”

  “And a group was made up of squadrons, is that correct?” Reinhardt asked.

  “Correct,” said von Vollmer, an austere nod acknowledging Reinhardt’s interest. “Usually three squadrons to a group.”

  “So, in order, wings had groups, and groups had squadrons.”

  “Correct.”

  “Very interesting,” Weber drawled.

  There was a knock at the door, saving Reinhardt any potential embarrassment, and a tall, rather aesthetic-looking man with thinning hair stepped inside. Von Vollmer glanced up at him somewhat dismissively, and with a contemptuous flick of his eyes at Weber, handed them over to the newcomer.

  “Bochmann, there’s a good chap. See if you can’t help out our police friends with their inquiries. Apparently one of our workers has met with a sticky end.”

  Bochmann nodded between Reinhardt and Weber. He appeared flushed and flustered, as if he had rushed here, and he held a thin file in spidery fingers.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, indicating the conference table. “I am Heinrich Bochmann, the general manager here. I have Zuleger’s file. How can I help you?”

  “What can you tell me about Zuleger?”

  Bochmann’s mouth pursed, and he shook his head, slightly. “There is not that much to say, I’m afraid. Zuleger was a good worker. There were no complaints against him. He was a good man. Quiet. Conscientious.”

  “What did he do here?”

  “He was a shift manager.”

  “How long had Zuleger worked here?”

  “Since December 1946,” said Bochmann, scanning the file.

  “When was the last time he was seen?”

  Bochmann shook his head and looked over at von Vollmer, behind his desk with pen in hand poised over a letter. “I really wouldn’t know,” Bochmann said. Von Vollmer nodded agreement. “I would have to check with the records. I remember him here last week. On Friday. More than that . . . I’m sorry, I couldn’t say.”

  “What did he do during the war?”

  “I’m sorry, how is that germane to this inquiry?”

  “You let us worry about that,” snapped Weber.

  “Please, just answer the question,” said Reinhardt.

  “He was a pilot.”

  At the end of what was a positive, but rather mundane, character reference, Reinhardt knew with some certainty they were hiding something.

  “Sir,” he said, looking over at von Vollmer. The Junker raised his head from his papers. “Is there anyone else from your old unit with you these days?”

  “What do you mean?” frowned von Vollmer.

  Reinhardt feigned surprise. “I mean simply that a gentleman such as yourself would not knowingly leave old comrades out in the cold. And not always the metaphorical cold either.”

  “Yes,” said von Vollmer, his brow clearing from whatever concern had creased it. “Bochmann here, my managing director, used to be my Group’s XO. Its executive officer.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No. There are others.”

  “Like Zuleger.”

  “Zuleger,” nodded von Vollmer, leaning forward on his elbows. “Zuleger was an ex-comrade—former air force, like me, like Bochmann—and as such I would always like to think they would have an open door in one of my enterprises. I would consider it both a duty and honor to help such as him.”

  “Did you serve with Zuleger?”

  Von Vollmer gave a small shrug, looking at Bochmann, who paused before answering. “I believe Zuleger did serve under the director.”

  “Thank you, Bochmann.” Von Vollmer picked up the thread of the explanation. “Whether he served directly under me or not, he was an ex-comrade. I offered him a place and employment, as I would have done any man who served under me. I really did not know him all that well. So that you know, I only joined the Night Hawks in the last six months of the war. Prior to that, I was a staff officer in the air ministry.” Reinhardt could not fail to notice how von Vollmer’s apparent pride in being the Night Hawk’s commanding officer had suddenly become curtailed, but he focused on Bochmann. He had been the Group’s executive officer, according to von Vollmer. It would have been him who actually ran things.

  “Did you know Zuleger, Mr. Bochmann?”

  “I did.”

  “Knew him how? Knew him well?”

  “Well enough, Inspector,” replied Bochmann. His voice was quite soft, in keeping with his aesthetic appearance. “He was a pilot. One of many who passed through the Group. Neither the best, nor the worst. Neither the brightest, nor the dumbest.” He had heavy, watery brown eyes, their color muddied and silted with moisture, as if something in the air bothered him or he were constantly on the verge of breaking out in tears. “You served, I would wager. You would know, then, that after a while, one no longer notices those that come and go. They simply are, until they are not.”

  Von Vollmer cleared his throat, a nervous rasp, as if he were embarrassed. “Steady on, old chap,” he murmured solicitously at Bochmann. “What you ha
ve, Reinhardt, is simply a case of solidarity between ex-soldiers. Heaven knows, there’s little else for us to rely on these days.”

  “Old-boy networks are still alive and well, then,” muttered Weber, his voice low and slurred, like a boy who could not help saying what he did and knowing it would do him no good. It did nothing to help the image von Vollmer had already made of him. Von Vollmer’s face lengthened as he screwed his monocle into his eye, turning its flinty glitter on Weber.

  “I say, young man, try not to sound like one of those dreadful Soviet propaganda films.”

  “I am a detective in the Kripo, ‘old man,’” Weber snapped into von Vollmer’s carven expression. “And looking around this place, I can see those films make a lot of sense. Not doing so badly are you, Mr. von Vollmer?”

  “I see no reason to eschew one’s initiative and resourcefulness. Not when there is such opportunity and when needs are so great. There are those,” von Vollmer said, with a barely veiled look at Reinhardt, “who understand the values of initiative and enterprise, of capitalism and free markets, and there are those who do not.”

  “Be careful, Mr. von Vollmer, those are political words,” Weber spat out. Reinhardt winced to hear them, they made the younger man sound so callow and petulant.

  “Are they, young man?” von Vollmer said, smiling. “I do believe that you are not the political police, and that in this new Germany of ours, such thoughts are not forbidden us.”

  “Maybe what we need’s a bit of political police, eh? Set things to rights a bit.” Weber’s mouth curled shut, as if he wished the words back. “But such thoughts were forbidden before, weren’t they?” Weber bristled. “And before that, on your eastern estates, did your peasants have to tug their forelocks and bite their tongues when you rode by? You and your Junker brethren, as you led Germany down its Fascist path.”

  “My dear young man,” von Vollmer murmured, pityingly. “Its ‘Fascist path’? Where do you get such ideas? From a Soviet commissar? Like the ones who confiscated my ancestral estates? Who hung a banner that read ‘The Junkers’ lands in the peasants’ hands’ across the front of my manor? In any case, I will thank you not to speak out of turn, and when you speak to keep a civil tongue.”

  “May I have a sheet of paper?” Reinhardt interrupted. “Thank you,” he said to von Vollmer as the owner handed him one. He scribbled something on it and handed it to Weber. The detective looked at it a moment, then rose from his chair and left the room, Bochmann and von Vollmer watching him go.

  “I do apologize for my younger colleague,” said Reinhardt, a little smile on his face as the door closed behind Weber. “There is much he does not understand, or thinks he does and interprets wrong. Such as the solidarity between ex-soldiers and servicemen. It is something natural.”

  “You understand, of course,” said von Vollmer.

  “I understand. It saved my life. After the first war.”

  Von Vollmer nodded, looking at him with a different set in his eyes. “For me as well.”

  “But for my brothers in arms, I would have fallen by the wayside. It was nothing to be ashamed of then, and so why,” said Reinhardt, putting the faintest lash into his voice, “did I have to drag it out of you?”

  18

  Von Vollmer and Bochmann were silent. “You are correct to castigate us, Inspector,” von Vollmer said, after a moment. “But the solidarity that exists now is . . . not what we knew, you and I, in 1918. It is a solidarity that cannot always call itself what it is. There are those out there who might take this place apart if they knew that veterans were working here.”

  “Not just veterans,” said Reinhardt. “Men who actually served together. Who else is here from your command?”

  “Seven,” Bochmann answered, quietly. “Six,” he said, correcting himself. “I was thinking of . . . Zuleger.”

  “Pilots?” asked Reinhardt.

  “One,” Bochmann replied, after a moment. “Zuleger was the second.”

  “Names, please.” Bochmann paused, thinking, then wrote, handing the paper across to Reinhardt. He glanced at it, seeing Noell was not on it. “I would like to interview all those from your former command, please, starting now if they’re working today.”

  Bochmann nodded. “Inspector. You have not told us how Zuleger was murdered.”

  “He was asphyxiated by sand being poured down his throat. Do either of you know why someone would do that to him? Kill him in that way?”

  Neither of them had an answer, they just sat there looking blank, perhaps running over images in their mind of what had happened to Zuleger until the door opened, and Weber came back in with the piece of paper that he gave to Reinhardt. Von Vollmer and Bochmann looked at it with some interest, although Reinhardt said nothing about it, and then he realized why Bochmann looked familiar.

  “Did either of you know a pilot named Andreas Noell?” Reinhardt asked, on a hunch. Von Vollmer shook his head, then Bochmann, but Reinhardt was sure there was the slightest hesitation in Bochmann’s answer. Reinhardt looked at him, his eyes flat, and then Bochmann nodded, and corrected his answer to “not sure.” Reinhardt laid down a photograph. It was the group photograph, the one from Noell’s album. Von Vollmer rose from behind his desk and came round to look as well.

  “There you are,” Reinhardt said, pointing out Bochmann, who craned his head around and smiled, the silt in his eyes clearing a moment. On the photo, Bochmann sat in the middle of the front row, seated, his legs and arms crossed. Bochmann’s mouth tightened, as if around memories that were too much to handle, and he played a finger over the photo.

  “That’s Noell, I think. Yes, I think I remember him now.”

  “Where’s Zuleger?” Bochmann frowned at him. “Zuleger served in IV./JG56. Is he on this photo?”

  Bochmann’s eyes scanned the picture. “That’s him, I think. It’s hard to tell.”

  “But that is not a picture of the Night Hawks.”

  “No. That was IV./JG56.”

  “So you changed units?”

  “No, not quite. IV./JG56 was the original unit, but it was retrained and redesignated a night-fighter group in 1943.”

  “It became another unit?”

  “Yes. The personnel in it at the time mostly remained, as I recall. The pilots all went through extensive retraining. New fighters, new tactics. But not Noell. He had already transferred out. Sometime in early 1943, I think. I’m not sure exactly when, or where, but I think it was to test pilot status.”

  “Test pilot?”

  “Yes. I don’t know anything about it. But this photo,” said Bochmann, pointing out the group shot, “was of the original flyers, the Group of 1940-41.” There was an element of pride in his voice. “Most of them are dead now,” he mused. “Dead or wounded. Or missing. Shot down. Taken prisoner. Gone. Like Colonel Elbers, there. Shot down over the Channel. We never heard what became of him.”

  Von Vollmer harrumphed, as if to cut short any reference to the squadron before he joined it. “And so just why, Inspector, are you asking about former pilots from the Night Hawks, or that we might have served with?”

  “It’s because someone’s murdered two of them. Zuleger and Noell. And what links the pair of them is IV./JG56 and III./NJG64. So I ask again, does anything occur to you as to why, or what would link those two men?” Again, they shook their heads. “How about this, then. Would you have any idea what this is?” He spread the apparent manifesto and related documentation he had found in Zuleger’s apartment. “Any idea?”

  “That’s political, is what that is,” Weber said, a slight crow in his voice as if he had recognized something before anyone else. Von Vollmer and Bochmann lifted their heads from it, looking at Weber, then at each other. “Political, and illegal,” said Weber unnecessarily, perhaps reading too much into von Vollmer’s and Bochmann’s silence.

  “For once, your impetuous young colleague is
right, Inspector. It’s some kind of manifesto. I’ve seen similar.”

  “You’ve seen such before?” gloated Weber, and there was a light of petty triumph in his eyes, of the kind Reinhardt had seen far too much of these past few years. His temper frayed at Weber’s vehemence, but he admitted it had its uses, watching the effect it had on the other two men. Von Vollmer straightened, and he had none of the disdain in his voice and face as he looked at Weber, then at Reinhardt.

  “Such things circulate, you know. But I’ve never seen that.”

  “Perhaps we should invite you to Linienstrasse to continue this conversation,” smiled Weber.

  “Enough,” said Reinhardt, curtly. Weber flushed, and opened his mouth, but Reinhardt shook his head. “Thank you both for your time,” he said to von Vollmer and Bochmann. “One final question: Did either of you know Zuleger in any capacity other than as a worker and as a former comrade?”

  “I did not,” said Bochmann.

  “No,” said von Vollmer curtly, the word neatly encapsulating the social distinctions that still ruled him. He might have seen it his duty to provide for those who had relied on him or over whom he had had authority, and thus a sense of responsibility in the way his class might have defined it, but it almost certainly did not extend to mixing with them in social settings.

  Bochmann showed Reinhardt and Weber out of the office to an adjacent room, where the six other factory employees who used to be in III./NJG64 were waiting. According to Bochmann’s information, there was a pilot and five who were former ground staff. Zuleger was known to them, and they took his death with varying degrees of shock, exchanging wide-eyed looks among one another, but it was little more than the shock that would cross anyone’s face and mind on hearing someone they knew had died.

  “How did he die, again?” they asked.