'Could be done.' Heidi hobbled a step or two. 'So will you take me home?'
This was his great opportunity to be alone with her. But since it came by permission of his rival, indeed almost by command of his rival, Ben couldn't take it. 'No time,' he said briefly.
'Please yourself,' she snapped, and stopped hobbling.
Sergeant Allen thanked them for the lovely present. Corporal Kauwe grunted cheerfully and hung all the keys on the hooks, including, as Ben noted with satisfaction, the key to the cellar storeroom. The office door folded outwards. If you opened it just far enough then the inside of it, to which the board with hooks was screwed, was out of sight of anyone sitting at the desk. Ben had come up with the solution to his problem.
Now he had to find the right moment. It came when Sergeant Allen was training the baseball team in the garden and Corporal Kauwe was on the telephone in the office. Ben flung the door wide and reached quickly for the key while the Hawaiian was conversing in a guttural voice with a fellow countryman, his gaze directed on the far-away Pacific Ocean.
'Oh, sorry. I'll come back later.' Ben slammed the door and raced downstairs. There was no one in the cellar: the drama group wouldn't be rehearsing until later. He opened the storeroom, picked up a carton labelled 'Mars Bars', hid it under the stage in the main basement area, locked the storeroom door again and went up.
Corporal Kauwe was just finishing his conversation as Ben opened the office door for the second time, and slipped the key back on its hook. 'OK, what do you want?' Ben asked if he could see the latest Saturday Evening Post, thanked the corporal and went off with the magazine. He sat in the hall and leafed through it for a little while, just for the sake of appearances, before going down again.
He pulled the carton out from under the stage, heaved it up on his shoulders, and peered through the little window in the cellar door. The baseball team had finished training. Concealed by shrubs and bushes, Ben climbed the fence to the neighbouring plot of land, and then made his way through a gap in the hedge and into the street. No one took any notice of him. Everyone was carrying something somewhere these days, whether home or to barter it. Ben was going to Frau Molch's to dispose of his goods.
The cartoon was rather heavy. Two hundred and fifty Mars Bars with that dense, sweet, sticky filling were bound to weigh a lot. Most important of all, they weighed a few thousand marks. The coveted suit, that emblem of elegant masculinity and the key to the favours of the woman he adored, was coming closer. As he shifted the carton to his other shoulder, Ben was already toying with the idea of a second raid on the cellar. Life, complete with the made-to-measure clothing suitable for a man of the world, was expensive.
Frau Molch was an energetic little woman who ran a bar at the toboggan run in winter. But it was summer, and in any case, there were no drinks available to serve at the bar. She had set herself up on the black market when she exchanged her dead husband's clothes for other articles after he fell at the Front. Soon her apartment on Eschershauser Weg was a positive warehouse.
Sacks of yellow peas, cans of condensed milk built into pyramids, shoes for ladies, gentlemen and children, candles, bicycles, powdered milk, coffee beans, cigarettes, Swiss watches — there was almost nothing in the way of desirable goods that you couldn't get from Frau Molch. She was an institution in the Onkel Tom quarter. Anyone who wanted a smoked sausage and a cup of coffee more than they wanted to hang on to a wedding ring or a camera, and didn't fancy going all the way to the Potsdamer Platz, visited her instead.
Ben let the carton slide off his shoulder on to the living-room table, where it landed between a packet of biscuits and a pair of binoculars. 'Two hundred and fifty Mars Bars,' he said, in a businesslike voice. 'Three thousand Allimarks, OK?'
'Not worth more than a thousand eight hundred,' said Frau Molch.
'Ten marks each. That makes two-five,' Ben countered.
'Two thousand,' Frau Molch offered. She would sell them for three times that amount. 'Open it up.'
The carton was sealed in a makeshift way with a strip of sticky tape. Ben hadn't noticed that before. He tore back the tape and unfolded the four sides of the lid. Before them, neatly packaged in dozens, lay six hundred yellow pencils. Major Baker had used the empty carton to hold his well-meaning gift. 'To give the kids something to write with,' the chaplain had explained to Sergeant Allen with a kindly smile. The carton of Sunshine Marshmallows held erasers, and the label on the Hershey hazelnut and chocolate bars concealed stacks of virgin notepads.
Frau Molch was annoyed. 'You think you can take me for a ride?'
Ben was shattered. 'I didn't know. Honest.' He pulled himself together. Business was business. 'How about two hundred marks? People can really do with pencils, specially pretty yellow ones like these.'
'Fifty, and now clear out.'
Ben pocketed the fifty Allimarks, designed to imitate an American dollar bill, and went away. 'Bloody awful outfit.' he muttered, meaning the US Army in general and its youth clubs in particular. Places where they promised you Mars bars and gave yellow pencils.
Klaus Dietrich had passed a restless night. It was partly due to the bottle of wine he had shared with Inge: he wasn't used to it. But most of all, his gloomy thoughts of the dead women and their murderer had tormented him in his dreams, and still pursued him now that he was awake. A terrible premonition of other appalling deeds accompanied him on his way to work, making him aware of his helplessness. He had made no progress yet, he wasn't a step further on.
'We know some more about that garbage-truck driver,' said Franke. saluting the inspector. 'Seems like Otto Ziesel has a pathological hatred of German women who sleep with Yanks.'
Dietrich was unconvinced. 'So pathological that he brutally murders three women and gets himself caught disposing of the last?'
'It wouldn't be the first time in the history of criminal investigation that the murderer has pretended to "find" his victim.'
A bit far-fetched, don't you think, Franke?'
'The suspect has previous convictions, inspector. His files have survived. There was a preliminary inquiry brought against him during the war, for rape. It was set aside. The woman was Jewish so it was decided she couldn't be believed. Ziesel was the driver for some Nazi big cheese. Another reason to dismiss the case.'
'Where is the man?'
'I've told him to come here at ten. There's one thing this third case indicates a lot more clearly than the first two, inspector. The killer's working for the Yanks.' There was a touch of irony in Franke's tone. 'No ordinary German criminal has a pass that allows him to kill in the prohibited zone and then stuff his victim into an American garbage bin.'
Tyres squealed outside. Sergeant Donovan strode through the open door like a fighting bull and straight into Inspector Dietrich's office. 'My captain wants you,' he barked. 'Let's go.'
'Good morning, sergeant. Sorry, I'm busy. I have to question a man at ten. Tell your captain I'll be happy to look in this afternoon.'
'I said let's go!' Donovan shouted. 'Now!' He laid his hand threateningly on the grip of his Magnum. Did this damn German still not realize who'd won the war?
'Stop this nonsense, sergeant,' said Dietrich calmly. 'I'll come as soon as I have time.'
The sergeant went red in the face. He drew his gun and pointed it at the German. 'Come on, you goddam Kraut.'
Klaus Dietrich stepped forward. A chop to Donovan's forearm with the side of his hand, quick as lightning, and the Magnum clattered to the floor. Dietrich picked it up, took the magazine out and emptied it with his thumb. The cartridges tumbled out on the floor too. He handed the weapon back to Donovan, who made for him. Dietrich dodged his charge. 'I was in a judo club before the war. I may not be fully back on form, but I can deal with bad manners.' Boiling with rage, Donovan put the gun back in its holster. Sergeant Franke hid his grin behind a file. 'Come on, then, sergeant, we don't want to keep your captain waiting,' Dietrich told him. 'Franke, hang on to this man Ziesel until I get back.'