Helen stopped, turned to him.
"We can get Franks to check hospitals, and we can contact someone from the Canadian embassy, see if they can trace a birth certificate — but you know something, I don't think they'll find one, I think they adopted a child here. God knows there must have been thousands of children needing help."
Louis snapped angrily: "Unless Rebecca was Goldberg's child! Don't get too romantic about this, we may have the wrong woman."
"You don't really think so, do you? She was Rosa's sister."
Louis continued talking as they walked down the stairs. "But we don't know if this Rosa was Vebekka's mother, adopted or otherwise; we are just clutching at straws."
They came out from the apartment building, and their driver tooted his car horn, having parked across the street. Louis slapped his forehead. "Dear God, I'd forgotten him! I don't think I can stand his guided tours all the way back."
But Louis did seem more relaxed, even good-humored, now that they had left the apartment. They got into the car and Louis asked the driver to stop at the nearest telephone booth.
They drove only half a mile before he went to call the hotel to check on Vebekka. Helen watched him from the window, and then leaned back closing her eyes. She was sure the jigsaw was piecing together. The Mullers had turned their back on Rosa not because she was pregnant, but because the father of her child was a Jew.
Louis returned and signaled for the driver to move on.
"She has eaten, she is resting, and Hilda says she is calm, sleeping most of the time!"
As they crossed into East Berlin, their driver became even more animated. "You know the communist regime may have tried to squash artistic freedom but, like the West, we always had circuses — you like the circus? At one time it was all provided for, classical music, opera, everything was funded by the state. Now we have no funds to sustain the arts, all our artists, our best talent and producers run to the West... now a leading ballerina from the East Berlin Ballet is having to find work as a stripper to cover her rent, it's true!"
Helen leaned forward, trying to stop the constant flow of monologue, and asked if he had heard about the murder, the dwarf found in the hotel not far from the Grand Hotel.
The driver nodded his head vigorously. "Yes, yes I heard, the crime wave is unstoppable here, we don't have enough police... maybe he was working at the Artistenschule, you know, teaching circus acts. We have many famous circus performers from Berlin, you know there is a magnificent circus about to begin a new season — if you want, I get you tickets, I have contacts..."
The car drew up outside the hotel, and still the driver talked. "I have many contacts for nightclubs, for shows, if you want something risque — you know what I mean — I can arrange..."
He had exhausted them both. Helen rang for the elevator while the baron inquired at the desk for any letters or calls. He was handed a package, just arrived by Federal Express.
Standing next to the baron was Inspector Torsen Heinz, who gave him no more than a cursory glance; he was more interested in the contents of the envelope.
Torsen was mentally adding up the cost of the small salad he had eaten in the hotel bar. He'd never have another. It had not even been fresh or served well, but it had cost more than five times his usual cheese on rye at lunch.
Torsen had been waiting patiently over half an hour for the manager to give him a list of residents who had arrived at the Grand Hotel from Paris on or near the night of Kellerman's murder. The baron and Helen stepped into the elevator as the manager bustled across the foyer, gesturing for the inspector to follow him.
The manager ushered Torsen into his private office, then closed his door. "I have had to speak to the director of the hotel about this matter, I am afraid you place us in a very difficult situation. We do have guests, and they are from Paris, but whether or not I can ask..."
Torsen opened his notebook officiously. "I have been able to gain a positive identification of the murdered man, sir, and I will require from you the date these guests arrived. Does it coincide with the dates I gave to you?"
"Yes, yes, but these guests are Baron Marechal, his wife, a nurse, and I think his wife's physician, a Dr. Helen Masters."
Torsen closed his book. "Could I speak with the baron?"
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, his wife has not been well, and she is resting in their suite. I really don't like to disturb them. Perhaps if you return in the morning, I will speak to the baron; he is not available right now."
"He just came in."
"Excuse me?"
"I said the baron just arrived at the reception desk, I saw him."
The manager tightened his lips, referred again to the conversation he had just had with the director, and suggested Torsen return in the morning. In the meantime, he would speak to the baron.
Torsen was ushered out into the elegant foyer, and checked the time on the clock behind the reception desk. He wondered whether he could squeeze in a quick visit to his father before interviewing the janitor at Kellerman's hotel. It had started to rain again, and the inspector decided he would treat himself to a taxi. He asked the doorman to call him one, but then he saw that one was waiting by the door.
The baron and Helen's driver was snoozing, but he jumped to attention when Torsen tapped on his window. Torsen gave the address of his father's nursing home, and was treated to a detailed account of the rise in price of facilities for the elderly. "This city will be in deep trouble — you know why?"
Torsen made no reply, knowing it would make no difference.
"The avalanche of poverty-stricken immigrants is heading this way. Our young have all flown to the West. I was telling the baron, he was in my cab today, I was telling him about the circus, the Artistenschule, once the most famous in the world for training circus performers. It'll close, mark my words, it'll close."
Torsen frowned. "Did the baron ask about the circus?"
The driver nodded. "We were discussing the murder, the dwarf, he was asking about the murder!"
Torsen listened, interested now, and instructed the driver to change direction, he wanted to go to the Artistenschule.
The driver did a manic U-turn in the center of the road. "Okay, you're the boss... I said to the baron, I said, they'll never find the killer."
"Why is that?" asked Torsen.
"Because we've got a load of amateurs running our Polizei, they never made any decisions before, they were told who to arrest and who not to, you can't change that overnight... This is it... main door is just at the top of those steps."
Torsen fished in his pockets for loose change, then asked for a receipt. The driver drew out a grubby square notepad, no taxi number or official receipt. "How much do you want me to put on this? Traveling salesman are you?"
Torsen opened his raincoat to reveal his uniform. "No... I just need to give it to my Leitender Polizei Direktor!"
The driver said nothing, scribbled on his notepad, and shook Torsen's hand — too hard, too sincerely. For a brief moment Torsen saw a fear pass over his face, and then it was gone — so was the Mercedes in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. In the old days he could have been arrested for slandering the state!
Torsen knocked on the small door marked office private underlined twice. He waited, tapped again, and eventually heard shuffling sounds; then a rasping voice bellowed to an animal to get out of the way. The door opened, and Torsen was confronted by a massive man wearing a vest and tracksuit bottoms. Clasping his hand was a chimp, they rather resembled each other, the vest hardly hiding the man's astonishing growth of body hair.