A German Requiem

The water arriving in the tap from the Styrian Alps tasted cleaner than the squeak of a dentist's fingers. I carried a glassful of it from the bathroom to answer the telephone ringing in my sitting-room, and sipped some more while I waited for Frau Blum-Weiss to switch the call through.

'Well, good-morning,' Shields said with affected enthusiasm. 'I hope I got you out of bed.'

'I was just cleaning my teeth.'

'And how are you today?' he said, still refusing to come to the point.

'A slight headache, that's all.' I had drunk too much of Belinsky's favourite liquor.

'Well, blame it on the f/hn,' suggested Shields, referring to the unseasonably warm and dry wind that occasionally descended on Vienna from the mountains.

'Everyone else in this city blames all kinds of strange behaviour on it. But all I notice is that it makes the smell of horseshit even worse than usual.'

'It's nice to talk to you again, Shields. What do you want?'

'Your friend Abs didn't get to Munich. We're pretty sure he got on the train, only there was no sign of him at the other end.'

'Maybe he got off somewhere else.'

'The only stop that train makes is in Salzburg, and we had that covered too.'

'Perhaps someone threw him off. While the train was still moving.' I knew only too well how that happened.

'Not in the American Zone.'

'Well, that doesn't start until you get to Linz. There's over a hundred kilometres of Russian Lower Austria between here and your zone. You said yourself that you're sure he got on the train. So what else does that leave?'

Then I recalled what Belinsky had said about the poor security of the US

Military Police. 'Of course, it's possible he simply gave your men the slip.

That he was too clever for them.'

Shields sighed. 'Sometime, Gunther, when you're not too busy with your old Nazi comrades, I'll drive you out to the DP camp at Auhof and you can see all the illegal Jewish emigrants who thought they were too smart for us.' He laughed.

'That is, if you're not scared that you might be recognized by someone from a concentration camp. It might even be fun to leave you there. Those Zionists don't have my sense of humour about the SS.'

'I'd certainly miss that, yes.'

There was a soft, almost furtive knock at the door.

'Look, I've got to go.'

'Just watch your step. If I so much as think that I can smell shit on your shoes I'll throw you in the cage.'

'Yes, well, if you do smell something it'll probably just be the f/hn.'

Shields laughed his ghost-train laugh and then hung up.

I went to the door and let in a short, shifty-looking type who brought to mind the print of a portrait by Klimt that was hanging in the breakfast-room. He wore a brown, belted raincoat, trousers that seemed a little short of his white socks and, barely covering his head of long fair hair, a small, black Tyrolean that was loaded with badges and feathers. Somewhat incongruously, his hands were enclosed in a large woollen muff.

'What are you selling, swing?' I asked him.

The shifty look turned suspicious. 'Aren't you Gunther?' he drawled in an improbable voice that was as low as a stolen bassoon.

'Relax,' I said, 'I'm Gunther. You must be Becker's personal gunsmith.'

'S'right. Name's Rudi.' He glanced around and grew easier. 'You alone in this watertight?'

'Like a hair on a widow's tit. Have you brought me a present?'

Rudi nodded and with a sly grin pulled one of his hands out of the muff. It held a revolver and it was pointed at my morning croissant. After a short, uncomfortable moment his grin widened and he released the handgrip to let the gun hang by the trigger-guard on his forefinger.

'If I stay in this city I'm going to have to shop for a new sense of humour,' I said, taking the revolver from him. It was a .38 Smith with a six-inch barrel and the words 'Military and Police' clearly engraved in the black finish. 'I suppose the bull who owned this let you have it for a few packets of cigarettes.' Rudi started to answer, but I got there first. 'Look, I told Becker a clean gun, not Exhibit A in a murder trial.'

'That's a new gun,' Rudi said indignantly. 'Squeeze your eye down the barrel.

It's still greased: hasn't been fired yet. I swear them at the top don't even know it's missing.'

'Where did you get it?'

'The Arsenal Warehouse. Honest, Herr Gunther, that gun's as clean as they come these days.'

I nodded reluctantly. 'Did you bring any ammunition?'

'There's six in it,' he said, and taking his other hand out of the muff laid a miserly handful of cartridges on to the sideboard, next to my two bottles from Traudl. 'And these.'

'What, did you buy them off the ration?'

Rudi shrugged. 'All I could get for the moment, I'm afraid. Eyeing the vodka he licked his lips.

'I've had my breakfast,' I told him, 'but you help yourself.'

'Just to keep the cold out, eh?' he said and poured a nervous glassful, which he quickly swallowed.

'Go ahead and have another. I never stand between a man and a good thirst.' I lit a cigarette and went over to the window. Outside, a Pan's pipes of icicles hung from the edge of the terrace roof. 'Especially on a day as chilly as this one.'

'Thanks,' said Rudi, 'thanks a lot.' He smiled thinly, and poured a second, steadier glass, which he sipped at slowly. 'So how's it coming along? The investigation, I mean.'

'If you've got any ideas I'd love to hear them. Right now the fish aren't exactly jumping on to the riverbank.'

Rudi flexed his shoulders. 'Well, the way I see it is that this Ami captain, the one that took the 71 '

He paused while I made the connection: the number 71 was the tram that went to the Central Cemetery. I nodded for him to continue.

'Well, he must have been involved in some kind of racket. Think about it,' he instructed, warming to his subject. 'He goes to a warehouse with some coat, and the place is stacked high with nails. I mean, why did they go there in the first place? It couldn't have been because the killer planned to shoot him there. He wouldn't have done it near his stash, would he? They must have gone to look at the merchandise, and had an argument.'

I had to admit there was something in what he said. I thought for a minute. 'Who sells cigarettes in Austria, Rudi?'

'Apart from everyone?'

'The main black-siders.'

'Excepting Emil, there's the Ivans; a mad American staff sergeant who lives in a castle near Salzburg; a Romanian Jew here in Vienna; and an Austrian named Kurtz. But Emil was the biggest. Most people have heard the name of Emil Becker in that particular connection.'

'Do you think it's possible that one of them could have framed Emil, to take him out of competition?'

'Sure. But not at the expense of losing all those nails. Forty cases of cigarettes, Herr Gunther. That's a big loss for someone to take.'

'When exactly was this tobacco factory on Thaliastrasse robbed?'

'Months ago.'

'Didn't the MPs have any idea who could have done it? Didn't they have any suspects?'

'Not a chance. Thaliastrasse is in the 16th Bezirk, part of the French sector.

The French MPs couldn't catch drip in this city.'

'What about the local bulls the Vienna police?'

Rudi shook his head firmly. 'Too busy fighting with the state police. The Ministry of the Interior has been trying to have the state mob absorbed into the regular force, but the Russians don't like it and are trying to fuck the thing up. Even if it means wrecking the whole force.' He grinned. 'I can't say I'd be sorry. No, the locals are almost as bad as the Frenchies. To be honest, the only bulls that are worth a damn in this city are the Amis. Even the Tommies are pretty stupid if you ask me.'

Rudi glanced at one of the several watches he had strapped to his arm. 'Look, I've got to go, otherwise I'll miss my pitch at Ressel. That's where you'll find me every morning if you need to, Herr Gunther. There, or at the Hauswirth сafé on Favoritenstrasse during the afternoon.' He drained his glass. 'Thanks for the drink.'