‘I’m not even from Cologne. I’m a Berliner.’
‘You don’t sound like one.’
‘I grew up in Klettenberg.’
‘A Cologne boy after all.’
‘Before I lapsed.’
Hilde grew misty-eyed. ‘Berlin,’ she sighed, as if these two syllables held all the promise of the world. ‘Lucky you.’
‘How so?’
‘Right in the heart of the metropolis.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Well then, have you seen him?’
‘Seen who?’
‘Who do you think? The Führer, of course!’ There was such enthusiasm in her eyes it was as if she were discussing Willy Fritsch. ‘I just wondered. Weren’t you at the Reich Chancellery? In January, I mean, when he stood at the window.’
‘I had to work.’ He had got caught in the Nazis’ torchlight procession on the way home, but he didn’t want to mention that. This wasn’t what they were supposed to be discussing. The conversation had taken an unwanted turn, not that Hilde had noticed.
‘Isn’t it wonderful that the national revolution has reached Cologne?’ she asked. ‘That Adenauer and his Jew cronies are out on their ears at last?’
Rath’s cigarette almost fell out of his mouth. Hilde didn’t look like a Nazi zealot. He’d thought she was a modern girl, fun-loving and open to adventure, and that Nazi girls wore bunches, not bobs.
‘My family is on very good terms with Konrad Adenauer,’ he said sharply. ‘And to my knowledge he’s no Jew. As for his cronies…’
‘Did I say something wrong? Sorry, I shouldn’t have started on politics.’
Perhaps the conversation hadn’t taken such an unwanted turn after all. He stood up with such a sudden aversion to this naive Hitler-worshipper that his next move came easy. ‘I’m sorry. I thought we had something in common, but it seems I was wrong.’
He laid a two mark coin on the table, more than enough for the bill, snatched his hat and coat from the stand and left. He didn’t look around, but caught sight of Hilde Sprenger gazing after him in the reflective glass. She probably thought she had messed up with a single, ill-advised comment. With politics.
Well, it was no bad thing if at least one person in Cologne had cause to temper their Nazi enthusiasm. Above all, Rath was glad to have this business behind him, even if things hadn’t turned out as expected – but perhaps that was no bad thing either.
53
The tea dance began at five on the dot in Hotel Eden, and Charly was all dressed up. The risk of running into a colleague who might squeal to Wieking in a place like this was low; the cost, on the other hand, would be high. She had told Gereon as much on the telephone, but he had said it wasn’t important so long as she came away with a result.
Somehow she’d let herself be talked into going it alone! He was right, though, he’d never manage to prise her away from G Division officially, and there was no doubt that undercover operations had their appeal. This particular operation was so undercover that not even police knew about it. Still, what could they do? It was only dancing… for all that she was supposed to be ill.
She had left Kirie with the porter and walked fifteen minutes to the hotel, saving the taxi fare. The afternoon would be pricey enough. The Eden advertised itself as ‘the most modern luxury hotel in West Berlin’, and it was certainly among the most expensive.
She went straight from the cloakroom to the ballroom, taking her place at one of the tables near the dancefloor. She ordered a glass of house champagne, lit a cigarette and looked around. The band was already playing, and the room was filling even though it was only a few minutes after five. It was mostly women at the tables, the majority of whom wore expectant looks, until the first gallants arrived and led them to the floor. It seemed to Charly as if the dancers chose the most ardent looking women. Certainly they weren’t interested in the smokers. She stubbed out her Juno and tried to look keen. Before long a pomaded, southern-looking type with a pencil moustache arrived and essayed a perfect bow. A peacock, the kind she’d usually have sent packing.
‘May I have this dance?’
She smiled, reached for the man’s outstretched hand and stood up. The band played Latin American. She would have preferred Jazz, but that was asking too much at five in the afternoon.
She didn’t know the dance, but it wasn’t an issue. Her partner held her firmly and, thanks to his steady hand, her legs did what they were supposed to. No comparison with Gereon, whose range just about extended to the slow numbers.
‘The lady dances well.’
‘Entirely thanks to you.’
His response was a self-satisfied smile. Conversation wasn’t his strong point. Charly chose to lead. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
Her pomaded gigolo gave her a conspiratorial glance. ‘Just ask for Bertrand,’ he whispered.
‘From France?’
‘Brussels.’
‘How about Achim von Roddeck? Will I find him here too?’
Just ask for Bertrand looked confused at first, then insulted. ‘No, not anymore.’
‘They say he’s an author these days.’
His face told her he didn’t wish to discuss a former colleague, but nor did he wish to rebuff her. Or perhaps he wasn’t allowed. He smiled sourly. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know a lot about Herr von Roddeck.’
He wheeled her across the dancefloor. Charly tried again. ‘Can you make a living from it? Dancing, I mean?’
This time Bertrand didn’t even manage a sour smile, just looked thoroughly peeved. ‘I am dancing with you, because there is nothing I enjoy more in this world than dancing,’ he said. ‘And because the lady is a very talented dancer.’
And because you’d be on the breadline otherwise, Charly thought. ‘Why did Roddeck dance?’
‘I can only hazard a guess.’
‘Then hazard away.’
The dance was at an end, and with an elegant turn the Belgian snapped her backwards, catching her in his hands just as she feared she might hit the ground. The other dancers applauded. His eyes glared at her as he escorted her back to the table, but his mouth was smiling. ‘Why are you quizzing me about a colleague?’ he asked.
‘Well…’ Charly attempted a smile of her own. ‘You’ve got me.’ She looked at the ground in shame. ‘I’m a journalist,’ she said. ‘My paper asked me to write a feature on Achim von Roddeck’s former life. That’s why I’m here.’
For a moment she feared he might call for the house detective. ‘If that’s how it is, you shouldn’t waste your time dancing,’ he said. ‘Come back at eight o’clock when my colleagues and I eat dinner. You can ask your questions there. Willy can tell you more about Roddeck than me.’
‘Willy?’ she looked around.
‘He won’t be here until the evening.’
Again, Bertrand looked a little piqued. Charly pressed a five mark coin into the palm of his hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘Hopefully your colleague is just as discreet.’
‘Discreet…’ he said, stowing the coin swiftly away, ‘…we dancers are only discreet where our female clients are concerned.’ He managed a smile that wasn’t sour. ‘Colleagues, on the other hand, are fair game. Especially former ones.’
Bertrand from Brussels made for the next table, bowing elegantly before a buxom blonde and leading her to the dance floor.
‘The lady dances well,’ Charly heard him say, as the two glided past. She drained her champagne, set down the glass, placed a two-mark coin on the table and left the room. The female cloak room attendant gazed at her in astonishment. It was probably the first time anyone had left the five o’clock tea dance at this hour, at least without a companion.