Suddenly it was Rath who stood leaning over the lifeless beauty, recognising her face framed by the black hair floating on the surface, and scaring himself half to death. Charly, it was Charly!
Startled out of sleep, he opened his eyes wide and stared into darkness, heart pounding wildly, breathing heavily as if he, himself, were about to drown. His hand searched for her. He needed a moment to work out where he was. There had been too many grisly stories in the last few days, but… what was that? It was pitch black in the room save for a strip of moonlight that had found its way through the crack between the heavy curtains, and nestled on the wall next to his bed.
He felt for his Walther on the bedside table. Still unable to see anything in the darkness, he was no longer sure the noise was real. But he had sensed it. There was someone in his room. Locating the pistol, he fumbled it out of its holster and released the safety catch. ‘Is anyone there?’ he asked. No response. ‘Who’s there? Show yourself! I’m armed!’
A white shadow flitted to his bed.
‘Sshh.’ A hissing noise, surprisingly loud, and a warm, slender finger on his lips. The strip of moonlight confirmed who it was. Her blonde hair was down, but still wavy from her untied braids. Hella let her finger linger on his lips and drew her face closer. Her big eyes sparkled, gazing at him inscrutably. He could make out her nightshirt and her breasts silhouetted inside.
She pressed her mouth on his and her tongue blazed a trail through his lips. She smelled of toothpaste and raspberry juice. He realised he had kissed her back without meaning to, and pulled away. ‘Hella, this is…’
Her finger returned to his lips. ‘Sshh,’ she whispered, and before he knew what was happening, she lay next to him in bed, snuggling closer as she slipped under the covers. She knew what to touch, and how to touch it.
61
When Rath awakened the next morning, Hella was gone. He had fallen asleep beside her, his night devoid of nightmares, but now her side was empty. It wasn’t even warm. At least she had taken her nightshirt.
It was years since anything like this had happened. Even during those long months when Charly had been in Paris, he had lived like a monk, in spite of the numerous temptations a city like Berlin afforded a man in his early thirties. On one occasion a lustful grass widow had picked him up in Kakadu and they had kissed wildly in the taxi as they tentatively explored each other’s bodies. In her bedroom, with champagne standing ready in its cooler, he remembered Charly and essayed a last-minute about-turn, leaving the woman to bombard him with abuse as she contemplated another night of solitude.
It ought to have been a lesson, but now, no sooner than he was engaged to marry, this!
Idiot. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen at most.
But by God, she was exciting.
Is that all you can think of?
He padded into the bathroom and took a shower. The water was so cold he cried out, but he didn’t care about the other residents. Afterwards he felt better, lucid enough to put her out of mind; this girl about whom he knew only that he wasn’t her first man. At least, he thought, he had one over the idiot brownshirt.
He looked at his watch; time to go. Emerging from the bathroom he felt ravenous, but remembered who would be on waitress duty, and resolved to give the ample Salzburger Hof breakfast a miss.
Stealing downstairs he found Hermann Rickert, hotel owner and father of Hella, at reception. He issued a brief greeting, wrestling with the image of the man reaching behind for his shotgun – but Rickert was polite as ever, and he emerged onto the street unscathed. Outside, it smelled as if half the town had burned down with the remains of yesterday’s fire still smouldering.
He strolled to a café next to the newspaper offices, where that morning’s edition hung in a wooden holder by the hall stand. He drank a coffee and ate a ham roll as he skimmed its contents. A special feature was devoted to the celebrations, with a second page recalling the events of twelve years ago. The results of the plebiscite, he read, had been projected onto the wall outside the offices of the Oletzkoer Zeitung, as it was then.
Each new result that went Germany’s way was greeted with cheers and rejoicing, the tide of enthusiasm reaching its peak when, shortly before midnight, the overall outcome was announced. Only two votes for Poland, the rest for Germany. Minutes later a torchlit procession was underway, and a fire ignited in the marketplace.
The birth of the Treuburg legend. Now he knew the significance of last night: it was a commemorative burning.
Gustav Wengler would be delighted. Not only was his speech praised, it was captured in three separate photographs, with advertisements for Mathée Luisenbrand and Treuburger Bärenfang appearing on either side of the double spread. There was no sign of an interview, however. Wengler’s quotes were carried almost verbatim from the speech. No doubt he had placed his manuscript at the editor’s disposal.
Rath left his money on the table and set off. He bought a foldable pocket magnifying glass from Dytfeld’s bookshop, and headed back across the marketplace. He still had an hour.
His hotel room was just as he’d left it. He took a deep breath, relieved not to find Hella Rickert making up his bed. After hanging out the Do Not Disturb sign, he locked the door, sat at the desk and flipped open the magnifying glass. Opening the drawer to retrieve the folder he realised it was gone. He looked in the second drawer. Nothing.
Perhaps he had taken it out yesterday after all? He tried to recall, but his memory was blank. Why, oh why, had he drunk so much? Imagine being constantly led astray by a village school teacher.
Led astray…
That bitch!
When he came downstairs Hermann Rickert was still at reception, though there was no sign of his daughter. The sight of Rickert dampened his ardour. Had he seen Hella there alone, he’d have put her across his knee!
‘Is there something I can do for you, Inspector?’ the hotelier asked politely.
He cleared his throat and leaned over the counter. ‘Listen… a black folder hasn’t been handed in since yesterday evening, has it?’
‘Sorry.’ Rickert gave an apologetic shrug.
‘It should be in my room somewhere.’
‘We have a safe for valuable items…’
‘It isn’t valuable, just a plain black folder with papers inside.’
‘If the papers are of value… you should have entrusted them to me.’
‘No, there’s nothing of value, at least material value, but it could be evidence!’
‘Like I said, we have a safe. You ought to have…’
‘Where’s your daughter?’
‘What are you trying to say? My daughter’s no thief!’ Hermann Rickert was indignant. ‘Besides she hasn’t been in your room today.’
Rath resolved to keep his counsel. ‘Tell her to keep her eyes peeled for a black folder when she does her rounds. Perhaps it slipped behind a cupboard. Please inform me immediately if you find it.’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’ The hotelier gave him that look of obsequiousness he so hated.
‘Just to be clear, Herr Rickert. These are important documents. I hope they turn up, otherwise I might find myself obliged to have your premises searched, and your guests submitted to questioning.’
The hotelier blanched. ‘But, Inspector! This is a house of impeccable repute! I’ve no doubt this will soon be resolved.’