As Stern had done at the Ragusa, the receptionist behind the desk was able to size up Reinhardt as he walked across the lobby and to make his displeasure evident behind a facade of professional attentiveness. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ His German was fluent, the accent Austrian. He had white hair combed back from a high forehead, and a pair of spectacles hung around his neck on a golden chain.
‘Yes, you may. I am with the Abwehr,’ said Reinhardt. ‘I need to see the registry.’
The man put on a slightly quizzical expression. ‘I’m not sure I understand you, sir.’
‘Your registry. I need to see it.’
‘May I ask why, sir?’
‘You may indeed,’ replied Reinhardt, leaning one elbow on the desk.
The receptionist flushed but maintained his composure. ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but I’m afraid that will not do. We cannot give out that sort of information to just anyone who asks.’
‘I told you. I’m with the Abwehr. I’m not just anyone.’
‘That may well be, sir.’ Was it Reinhardt’s imagination, or did he have the faintest of smiles?
‘Something about this strike you as funny?’
‘Indeed not, sir. But you will have to forgive me… Captain,’ he said, with the slightest of pauses and a glance, a perfectly superfluous glance, Reinhardt was sure, at his insignia. Reinhardt had to give the old bastard credit. He was good. Much better than Stern at the Ragusa. Kept his nerve. He probably saw and dealt with a lot worse than Reinhardt on any given day. ‘We get many requests here, for all kinds of things, from all kinds of people. Most of them, shall we say… shy;senior to you. This is a private establishment. We have the comfort and privacy of our guests to think about.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Well, that would be neither here nor there, sir. And in both cases, unless this were official, which I feel it is not, it is none of your business.’
‘What are you afraid of?’ asked Reinhardt, leaning both elbows on the desk and swivelling to face the man directly. He leaned back slightly, as if to keep Reinhardt at arm’s length.
‘Afraid?’
‘Yes. Afraid. Something to hide, perhaps?’ The receptionist frowned, drawing himself up, and Reinhardt wondered if he had gone too far too quickly. ‘Very well,’ he said, quickly. He nodded at a door to one side, marked Private – Manager. ‘Let me speak with him. Now.’
‘What, may I ask, is so urgent?’
‘Well, I said you could ask,’ said Reinhardt, glancing around the lobby. Apart from the waiters in the dining room, there was no one.
‘In that case, I’m afraid I am not able to help you, sir. Good day to you.’ The man sniffed, then picked up a pen and began to write in a small book. He looked up after a moment, seemingly surprised to find Reinhardt still there. ‘Was there something else, sir?’
‘Your manager. Go and get him.’
The receptionist’s face flushed, the wrinkles around his eyes whitening. ‘I told you -’ He broke off as Reinhardt slapped Thallberg’s letter naming him a GFP auxiliary down on the desk. He looked at Reinhardt before polishing his glasses on the edge of his waistcoat. He pulled his nose tight as he put them on, then picked up the paper. With a last look at Reinhardt over the top of his glasses, he sighed, as if giving him a last chance to leave, and then began to read. Within moments the man’s eyes flicked up at Reinhardt, then back to the letter. He finished it and put it down on the counter. He took off his glasses, his fingers nervous on the frames, and looked up.
Reinhardt grinned, the most insolent grin he could come up with. ‘Changes things?’ The receptionist cleared his throat. Reinhardt made the grin go away, looking hard at the man. He did not like acting like this, and the man was polite and just doing his job. It felt wrong, but it was part of the role he had to play.
‘I am not sure it does, sir,’ said the man, but he sounded noticeably less sure of himself.
‘Oh, I assure you it does. You either help me now, or I come back with a squad of Feldgendarmerie and turn this place upside down. Now. For the last time. Your manager.’
The receptionist knew when he had lost. ‘Yes, sir. Whom shall I say is calling?’
‘Captain Reinhardt. Abwehr.’ He flicked a dismissive hand at the paper. ‘Just as it says on the letter. Show it to him.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the man. He straightened his suit jacket with two hands, and stalked off with his head high over to the manager’s office. He knocked once, cleared his throat, then opened the door and stepped inside.
The moment he did, Reinhardt reached over the counter and hauled up a big ledger, bound in black leather, the pages thick and white. He looked quickly at the date, flicked back a page, finding the weekend. He ran his fingers down the list of names, his eyes leaping over the looping signatures of generals, colonels, majors… Some of the names he recognised. Most of the names of the officers from the bar were there. Faber. Forster. Lehmann was there. Verhein! There he was. Colonel Ascher’s name was next. His chief of staff, Reinhardt remembered. He had been at the bar as well. Two other colonels from the 121st were there: Gartner and Oelker. He made to put the ledger back, then paused. Why bother? He had been thinking furtively, like someone doing something wrong. He was doing something wrong, but the person he was supposed to be would not think that way. He swallowed, hot and embarrassed, feeling how close he was to skirting that line he had always tried to stay away from. He feigned a nonchalance he did not feel, forced himself to lean on his elbow on the counter as he lifted another page.
The receptionist came back out, Reinhardt’s letter in his hand. Seeing him with the ledger, he stopped dead for a moment. ‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘Where’s the manager?’
‘Absent.’
‘Very well. You’ll do just as well. By the way, your name is?’
‘Ewald. Alfred Ewald.’
‘Well, Mr Ewald, may I have my letter back?’
He put his hand on the ledger as Ewald reached for it. ‘I declare, of all the insolent…’
‘Mr Ewald, I am on official business. Official business,’ he repeated. ‘You can either help me or hinder me. In both cases, I get what I want. In one case, you come out worse. Decide which it will be.’
‘The manager will complain about your behaviour. Believe me he will. To the highest levels.’ Reinhardt stared back at him, expression even and blank. Ewald clenched his jaw and then seemed to calm. ‘Very well. What do you want?’
‘For now, just to look at this. If you will permit me… ?’ Reinhardt looked at the date entries for Verhein. Checked in on Thursday. Checked out on Sunday. As did all of his officers. But Reinhardt had seen Ascher just on Tuesday, in the officers’ mess when he had made such a fool of himself. He jotted the dates down in his notebook.
‘Are you aware of the murder of Miss Marija Vukic? On Saturday?’ Ewald nodded. ‘Well, I have reason to believe the killer may have been one of your guests.’
‘One of our…’ he said. Reinhardt watched him as the light in his eyes seemed to fold back and away, and he stood straighter, as if braced.
‘Yes. One of your guests. Now, think back to Saturday night. Did anything happen you thought then was strange? Or think now was strange? Anything at all. Take your time.’
‘Nothing, sir,’ said Ewald. ‘Nothing comes to mind.’
‘Nothing?’ Reinhardt pursed his lips. ‘A woman was murdered not five minutes’ walk from here, by someone who had almost certainly stayed in this hotel, and you can tell me nothing.’ He sighed. He felt deflated suddenly, but he saw that his sigh had a different effect on Ewald. He saw an officer, a security officer, an apparently frustrated security officer. ‘Who was on the front desk that day?’
‘That was me, sir.’
‘Hmmm. There was a conference here that weekend, no?’ He motioned at the ledger. ‘All those officers. There was a dinner? A shy;reception?’