Entwined (24 page)

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."