Entwined (23 page)

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."