Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (55 page)

He heard Perchesky suck in his breath, but the old man said nothing for a time. The picture trembled slightly in his hand as he studied it. Finally, he stared into space, casting his thoughts back in time. “This man is from Poland?”

“Yes.”

“From Lodz?”

“Do you recognize him?”

“I think he was one of the SS officers who guarded the entrance to the ghetto.”

Inwardly, Green was cartwheeling in triumph. “SS officer? You mean Polish Police officer?”

Perchesky squinted in his effort to remember, then slowly shook his head. “Maybe. It was the same everywhere— Ukraine, Hungary, Slovakia, Latvia—the local Fascists helped the SS with their dirty work. They helped seal the ghettoes and guard the gates to make sure no one escaped or smuggled things in. If they caught you, the SS shot you.”

“And you think this man was one of these guards?”

Perchesky studied the photo again with obvious discomfort. “It looks like him, but I was only in Lodz for a little time when he was there. He came to the ghetto only in 1942, and I was sent to another camp in October. But you could ask the other man Dr. Walker had on his list. He was in Lodz longer. He knew Leib better, and maybe this guard too.”

Green had been putting the photo of Gryszkiewicz back into his jacket pocket, and he looked up sharply. “What other man?”

“Another survivor from Lodz. Dr. Walker asked if I knew him, but I didn’t.”

“What was his name?”

Perchesky shook his head helplessly. “I don’t remember,” he began, but was drowned out by his wife.

“Bernard Mendelsohn.”

Thirteen

September 10th, 1942

The potato peelings look forlorn,
swimming sparse and shrivelled in the watery pot.

She doles them into bowls, splits a slice of bread in three.

You too, I say, but she shakes her head.

Eyes her bag of embroidery, untouched since that dreadful day,
when the ghetto lost all taste for finery.

I’m going over the wall, she says.

Madness but surely mine to do, I protest.

The hole’s too small, she says, the rope too thin.

Besides, I know someone.

She has that look, born of an urge stronger than life itself.

Our babies falter, their spirits and bodies shrunk.

So I nod and she picks up the bag.

There was no answer
at Howard Walker’s house nor at Bernie Mendelsohn’s apartment in Ottawa when Green phoned. He sat in his car outside Howard’s house, cursing his cell phone and trying to figure out his next move. It was nine o’clock in the evening. Around him the traffic of downtown Montreal swirled in the darkness, and headlights reflected off the slush-slicked streets. Where the hell had Howard gone? Green couldn’t sit in his car indefinitely, hoping the man turned up sometime that evening. Not when there was a panicked old man on the loose with a gun and Bernie Mendelsohn, who was possibly the key to it all, was not answering his phone.

Nine o’clock. No reason to panic, he reassured himself. Mendelsohn might simply have fallen asleep and not heard the phone, just like the other night. Howard had never even mentioned him and probably never bothered to see him once Perchesky had told him what he needed to know. Just because fifty years later an old war secret had erupted into murder, it did not mean that Mendelsohn was in danger.

And yet…old man Gryszkiewicz had clearly gone off after something.

“Damn it,” he swore. Just when time was ticking away, he was at least two hours away from Mendelsohn’s home. Given no choice, he picked up his cell again and punched in Sullivan’s number.

Half an hour later, Brian Sullivan pulled up in front of Bernie Mendelsohn’s apartment and sat for a moment in his idling car, mustering some enthusiasm. It was bad enough that Green had caught him just settling down to a rare cuddle on the couch with Mary, bad enough that he’d been forced out into his frozen car on a blustery winter night, but now he had to barge into an ailing octogenarian’s apartment and scare the crap out of the poor guy with his police badge and his hulking six-two frame.

Still, Green had his premonitions, and Sullivan had worked with the man long enough never to dismiss them out of hand. The damn guy was right just too many times. And after Sullivan had hauled himself up to Mendelsohn’s apartment and tapped gently on the dingy door, he began to suspect this might be one of those times.

Silence. No creaking floors or shuffling feet. He knocked more loudly, then thumped hard enough to rouse the comatose.

Silence.

The building superintendent, wrenched from an alcoholic stupor by the sight of Sullivan’s badge, wheezed heavily as he fumbled the key in the cranky lock. When the door finally gave, Sullivan strode past him into the room. A quick glance around confirmed what Green had feared. The room hadn’t been inhabited for several days. The bed was unmade, pyjamas were cast about, food lay rotting on the counter, and the whole apartment reeked of decay. Paint flaked off the ceiling, and the overhead bulb cast a murky glow through its grime.

“Fuck!” whined the superintendent, who remained swaying in the doorway. Probably thinking about the clean-up, Sullivan thought with disgust.

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Mendelsohn?” he demanded.

The man shrugged, a movement which briefly upset his balance. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not my job to watch over all these old guys. Not for a couple of days, I think.”

Sullivan installed the man on the single kitchen chair and rummaged through the cupboard’s meagre supplies. Within five minutes he had a cup of strong coffee in one hand and a flask of cheap cherry brandy in the other. Looming over the man, he repeated his question.

“I was mopping the front hall, one of them fucking freezing days. Thursday? Maybe Friday? He come out the elevator looking tired and leaning hard on his cane, like he was in pain.”

Sullivan gave him a quick sip of brandy. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t say nothing! Looked right through me like I wasn’t there. He don’t usually do that, so I thought he must be feeling bad.”

“What else?”

“That’s all I seen. I helped him with the door and he went off. I didn’t like him going off, what with the cold and the ice, but he’s stubborn that way.”

“What was he wearing? Was he carrying anything?”

“Wearing?” The superintendent wheezed. “Mr. Mendelsohn always dresses like a gentleman, with one of them hats gentlemen used to wear. But with the cold, he had his old parka bundled up to the very top.” Sullivan handed him the brandy, and the man took a long pull in his attempt to concentrate. “He was carrying a brown paper bag. I figured he was going shopping—that’s about all he goes out for anyways. Specially in winter.”

Sullivan took back the flask and leaned forward. “Did he have any visitors the day he left? Or the day before?”

“He never gets no visitors.”

“An old man, maybe Saturday?”

“Old man? Well, his friend came by a few days ago, with his son the cop—”

“Besides that. Maybe even the past few weeks?”

The super sucked at his tongue through the gap in his teeth. “Lives alone, no family, just a couple of friends. Sometimes he goes out for a game of cards, but this place is so small and shitty, who the hell would you want to—” He broke off abruptly, light dawning in his bloodshot eyes. “Jeez! I forgot! His son came. Couple of weeks ago, dropped in to see him one afternoon.”

Sullivan frowned. Green hadn’t mentioned Mendelsohn had a son. “What was his name?”

“Never said. But I figured it was his son.”

“What did he look like?”

“Good-looking fella. Dark hair, nice clothes. Got me curious because Bernie never had no money to spare, used to have trouble with the rent, so at first I couldn’t figure where this fancy-looking guy would fit in.”

“Did Mr. Mendelsohn actually tell you it was his son?”

The super shook his head and shifted uncomfortably. “I was keeping an eye out while the guy was here. I mean, I got a lot of old people here, and I got to know who’s in the building. This guy comes, and Mr. Mendelsohn lets him in all pleasant, like he knows him. I don’t hear nothing, no arguing, nothing, but when the guy comes back out after about an hour, he starts crying.”

“Mendelsohn?”

“No, the son. He shuts the door and leans against the wall and he bawls. So I thought…well, Mr. Mendelsohn’s sick, you know. Dying. And I heard he had a son somewhere. So it made sense.”

“How did Mr. Mendelsohn seem after that?”

“Well, it’s a funny thing. He’s been going downhill for a couple of months now. But the visit kind of perked him up, you know. I mean he wasn’t happy or smiling or nothing like that, Mr. Mendelsohn’s never like that, but he seemed stronger like. That’s why I figured it was his son maybe lifted his spirits.”

Green was halfway between Montreal and Ottawa when Sullivan’s call came through. As Sullivan filled him in, a tiny knot of fear began to form in his chest. His father had never mentioned Irving coming to visit. On the contrary, when his father had suggested contacting Irving about the cancer, Bernie had become annoyed.

In Green’s head, alarm bells began to ring. “Did the super give you a description of this guy?”

When he heard the description, the knot swelled to full force. When he’d rung off, Green rammed his foot closer to the floor and shot through the darkness.

An hour later, Sid Green started up in bed, blinking at his son through rheumy, sleep-filled eyes. “Michael! What has happened!”

“Nothing, Dad.” Green forced himself to sound casual as he laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. “I just need to talk to you about Bernie.”

Sid turned and stared around the darkened room. “What time is it!” he said irritably. “Why are you waking me up in the middle of the night?”

“Bernie, Dad. I need to talk to him, and he’s not in his apartment.”

“What could be so important at this hour! For this you almost give me a heart attack?”

Green drew back with a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, Dad. It’s not that late. I’ll go make you some tea.”

He was just squeezing some lemon from a plastic bottle into his father’s glass when Sid shuffled into the living room, drawing a ragged grey dressing gown around his waist. Green had bought him a new one, but it never seemed to leave his cupboard. Sid sank into his favourite tub chair with a scowl.

“Dad, you know I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t important. Do you know where Bernie went?”

“Nowhere. Bernie hasn’t gone anywhere in years. He just slept through the bell. He takes a lot of pills at night.”

Green shook his head. “The place was empty, and the food on the counter looked several days old.”

Sid raised his eyes slowly. Alarm replaced the irritation. “So soon,” he breathed. “They said he had one or two months left. He wanted to stay out of the hospital as long as he could.”

“Hospital! Of course.” Green stood up. “What hospital?”

“Civic.”

Green dialled, spoke briefly to reception and was informed that no Bernard Mendelsohn had been admitted.

“What do hospitals know?” Sid said. “He’s there.”

“Dad, have you seen him since Thursday? Talked to him?” His father was shaking his head irritably. “Did he seem any different recently?”

“I don’t know, Michael,” Sid said peevishly. “He’s upset about his cancer, that’s all. What is this! What do you want from Bernie!”

“Do you know if Irving visited him recently?”

“His son?” Sid came alive. “His son lives in Philadelphia, never calls. Why should now be any different?”

“Because his father is dying. Perhaps he wanted a reconciliation.” Sid was shaking his head skeptically, and Green found himself gritting his teeth. “Dad, it’s important! Would Bernie have gone to his son? Do you have his address?”

“No, no. If Irving called, Bernie would tell me. They haven’t talked in years.”

“But he had a visitor. A younger man. Bernie didn’t mention a thing to you?”

Sid stared across at his son, and gradually his expression began to change. The teacup shook slightly in his hand. “The last time I talked to him, before last week, he was very upset. Very white, talking all the time about ghosts from the past coming back—”

Green leaned forward. “What ghosts?”

The sharpness in Green’s tone must have unnerved him, for he shrank back. “I don’t know. Ghosts. I thought he meant memories.”

“Of the camps?”

Sid nodded. “Of all that happened. And all the people gone.”

“Bernie was from a little village, you said. Was he ever in Lodz ghetto?”

“Yes, Bernie was in Lodz, he was with the partisans, he was in Majdanek and Sachsenhausen, he lost twenty-two relatives in the war, and now he has a son in Philadelphia who doesn’t call.”

Green hid his anxiety until he had stepped into the darkness outside his father’s apartment. It was past midnight, and he was exhausted. All he’d eaten since morning was a Big Mac on his way back from Montreal, and he’d been racing around in circles now for nearly twelve hours. What had happened to Bernie Mendelsohn, and why had Howard lied about him? Questions kept swirling in his mind, but reason told him nothing more could be accomplished that night. Perhaps Mendelsohn had gone to visit his son. He was dying, and death tended to change a man’s perspective on family.

But what if Mendelsohn were in danger? What if someone was killing to keep the atrocities of the past a secret?

On impulse Green swung his Corolla towards Mendelsohn’s apartment. Just one last brief stop, he told himself, before he stumbled home to Sharon.