He interrupted himself, swearing. He should have asked Lazars if the dinner he had shared with Kellerman was a hamburger and fries! He'd have to call in the morning, and again he swore — he couldn't call him before nine because his switchboard wasn't connected until then. He also wanted a telephone.
Torsen began another of his lists. He was going to start throwing his weight around — he wanted a patrol car for his own personal use, plus fuel allowance, and, as of tomorrow, he was going to work out a schedule, none of this nine-to-five from now on. They would work as they did in the West, day and night, around the clock.
The bus rumbled on, and Torsen sniffed his hands. They smelled of Boris, he smelled of Boris, and the remains of the chimp's food had hardened into flecks all over his jacket. The bus shuddered to a halt, and Torsen stepped down, checking the time, sure the janitor must have started work by now.
He headed for Kellerman's hotel, passing the ornate and well-lit Grand Hotel entrance, hurrying down the back streets, mentally tallying up how many girls he saw lurking in the dark, dingy doorways, even wondering if any one of them had seen the killer. But he didn't approach the girls because he was alone, and didn't want his intentions to be misconstrued. He made a mental note to add to his lists... check out the call girls. No doubt Rieckert would jump at the chance.
The baron had ordered dinner in his suite, and the manager himself had overseen the menu. He bowed and scraped at the lavish tip. The baron thanked him for his discretion. He would of course speak with the director of the police. He shut the door, sighing, and turned to Helen.
"This place is unbelievable — they want me to meet with someone from the police, because we arrived from Paris on the same night that circus dwarf was murdered!"
Helen frowned, but said nothing; she was sifting through the package of letters and photographs that had just been delivered. She held up a small blurred snapshot.
"I am sure this is Rosa Muller, she's even got the same pigtails, and you can see where the photo's been cut in two, so maybe we were right after all... Louis?"
He sat beside her. "Yes, yes... I hear you."
Helen pointed out the cut edge of the photograph, sent by the baron's chauffeur from the United States. "I am sure Lena was on this photograph... it's very similar to the one she showed us, and just look at the other snapshot, Louis, I'm sure it's Vebekka."
Louis looked yet again at the snapshot of a girl in school uniform who was glaring at the camera. She had two thick plaits, her hands were clenched at her sides. And she was exceptionally plump, her face, even her legs seemed rounded.
"I just don't now."
Helen took the photograph. "We could always ask her, show it to her?"
Louis snapped. "No, I don't want her upset, I don't want anything to upset her, she's calm, she's sleeping, she's eating, she's going to see Franks tomorrow. You talk to him about it, see what he says, I just don't want these games we're playing to upset—"
"Games?... Louis, we're not playing games, for God's sake."
He shoved the papers aside. "I used the wrong word then, but we have come here to have Vebekka see Franks, she's agreed, now all this detective work..."
Helen pushed back her chair. "This detective work was, if you recall, specifically requested by Franks himself. I don't understand your attitude, you don't know anything about her past, and you have said it is your priority to find out whether there is any history of mental instability in Vebekka's family. But, Louis, unless we try and trace her goddamned family, how do you expect to find out?"
Louis rubbed his brow, his mouth a tight hard line. "Perhaps some things are best not uncovered..."
"Like what?"
He stared at the ceiling. "I don't know... but all these photographs, this woman this afternoon, what have we gained? We still know nothing of Vebekka's family. Her mother or adopted mother is dead, her father or adopted father is dead — how can they tell us what, as you said, is my priority? And it is not just my priority, but my sons', my daughters'." He sighed. "Look, maybe I'm just tired, it's been a long day."
Helen carefully gathered the photographs together, the letters from Ulrich Goldberg, the lists of Goldbergs she had contacted to trace Lena, and stuffed them into the large brown envelope.
"Perhaps you're right. I think I'm tired too, maybe I'll make it an early night."
The baron poured himself a brandy. "Do you want one?"
"No, thank you, I'll look in on Vebekka if you like."
"No, that's all right, Hilda's staying overnight, she's using Anne Marie's old room."
"What time are the police coming?"
"First thing in the morning."
"I'd like to sit in on the meeting, if I may, just out of interest. What time will Rebecca be going to Dr. Franks?"
"Vebekka!"
"What... oh I'm sorry, what time is her appointment with Franks?"
Louis shrugged as he lit a cigar and began puffing it alight. "I doubt if it will be before ten, he has set aside the entire morning."
"Good night then."
He looked at her, then inclined his head. "Good night!"
Louis noticed she took the envelope with her; it irritated him slightly, but he dismissed it. He turned the television set on, and switched from channel to channel. Hilda came out of Vebekka's bedroom.
"She is sleeping!"
He smiled warmly. "Good, you are very good for her, and I am grateful for your assistance. Also for agreeing to stay. Thank you!"
Hilda crossed the room, head bowed, and slipped into Anne Marie's room. As she went into the small adjoining bathroom, she could hear a bath being run from Helen Masters's suite.
Helen wrapped the thick hotel towel robe around herself, and then sat at the writing desk, taking the photographs out, studying them and staring at the wall. She picked up the photograph of the plump schoolgirl, turning it over. On the back was written, in childish scrawl, Rebecca.
She stared at the photograph angrily, and then let it drop onto the desk. Why was she so angry? Why?
She looked again at the photograph, and this time she took a sheet of paper and held it across the bottom part of the child's face, hiding the nose and mouth. They were Vebekka's eyes, she knew it!
Inspector Heinz had to wait at Kellerman's hotel until after eleven o'clock for the janitor to come on duty. He stood waiting impatiently as the scruffy man rummaged through the trash bins in the alleyway. Eventually, and very disgruntled at his work being interrupted, he led Torsen to where he recalled seeing the tall, well-built man. He pointed from the alley toward the street — not, as Torsen had thought, the other way around.
"But it's well-lit, you must have gotten a good look."
"I wasn't paying too much attention, I'd just started work. I clear the trash cans at a number of hotels around this area, I don't start working until after ten, but I remember seeing him, and he was walking fast, carrying this big bag — a sort of carryall."
This was evidence not before divulged. The janitor was able after some deliberation to describe a dark hat, like a trilby, worn by the man. "It was shiny, sort of caught the light, yes, it was black and shiny."
"Did you see his face?" Torsen asked.
The janitor shook his head and asked if he could continue his work. Torsen nodded, standing a moment longer as the man turned on a hose and began to wash down the alley.