The inspector sipped his soup... it was scorchingly hot, and he burned his lip. He almost knocked it over when his phone rang. It was Freda, she would be off duty at five, and wondered if she could see him, or if he could come to the hospital. His father had written a note which he had made Freda promise to deliver. Torsen suspected it was a ploy to get him to see Freda. He stuttered that he would try to pass by the hospital. He inquired about his father's health, and Freda laughed and said he was making snowflakes again. He did not find amusing the vision of his father plucking the bits of tissue, licking them, sticking them on the end of his nose and blowing them off again. He said that he would come by when he had a chance, but that he was very busy investigating a homicide.
"I know, his letter has something to do with it. Would you like me to read it to you? It will save you a journey."
Torsen fumbled for his notebook.
"Are you ready? Shall I read it?"
"Yes, yes, please go ahead."
Freda coughed, and then said: " 'One' — it's very much a scrawl — 'no coincidences.' Does that mean anything to you?"
Torsen muttered that it did, and asked her to continue.
" 'Two' — and this is very hard to decipher, it looks like 'Wise man,' or 'wizard' — does that make sense?"
"Yes, yes, it does, please continue."
"It's a name, I think... Dieter? Yes?"
"Yes, yes, that was my uncle, is that all?"
Freda said she was trying to puzzle out the next few words. "Ah, I think it says... 'Rudi'... 'R-U-D-I'... Yes, it's Rudi and then there's a J. I think the name is Polish, Jeczawitz. Yes, I am sure it's Rudi Jeczawitz. Would you like me to spell it for you?"
Torsen jotted down the name, thanked Freda, and apologized for his brusqueness. She laughed and said no matter. She put down the receiver before he could pluck up the courage to ask to see her. He swiveled around in his desk chair to look at the photograph of his father, murmured a "Thank you!" and finished his soup. He had to think carefully how to track down the Jeczawitz records. He would have to go cap in hand to the West Berlin Police with some story in order to get this information.
Torsen and Rieckert crossed the old border and drew up outside a new building housing a section of the West Berlin Police. The office was a hive of activity, the reception area alone busier than the entire station the pair had left. They were directed toward the records bureau through a long corridor. Outside the department was a counter at which a stern-faced woman heard Torsen's request for the records of a Rudi Jeczawitz. She checked his identification and handed him a formal request sheet to fill in.
They did not have to wait long. The station was fully computerized and the gray-haired woman returned with three sheets of paper clipped together.
They hurried back to their patrol car, Torsen skimming the pages as they walked. He got into the car, and continued to read. Rieckert waited patiently, having no idea why they had come to the station in the first place.
"Where next?"
Torsen lowered the paper. "Better head back to the station. I have to speak to the Leitender Direktor."
"He's still on holiday!"
"I have to speak to him... just drive."
Rieckert drove to their station, darting glances at Torsen who read, muttering to himself. His cheeks were flushed. The car had hardly drawn to a halt before he was out and running up the steps.
The records gave details of the dead man. The corpse had been found in a derelict building used for many years by vagrants, and considered "unsafe." His body had been squashed inside a small kitchen cabinet, not, as Torsen had thought, under floorboards. The body, because of the freezing temperatures, had been remarkably well preserved, yet Torsen was sure his father had described the body as badly decomposed. It was found almost intact, apart from deep lacerations to the left wrist and forearm. The skin had been hacked off with a crude knife with a serrated edge, but no weapon had been found. The victim was naked, apart from the cloak in which he was wrapped.
The police had been unable to identify the body for a considerable time, until a newspaper article requesting information on the identity of the deceased gave a clear description of the strange cloak found wrapped around him. A club owner had come forward, identified the dead man as seventy-five-year-old Rudi Jeczawitz, a one-time magician who had performed in his clubs. The man was an alcoholic, known to deal in forged documents. He had also been a procurer of very young girls, and shortly after the war had run a prostitution ring. The drinking destroyed him, and at the end he worked for little more than free drinks, using his wife as part of the act. His wife, a known prostitute, had disappeared; she had not been seen after the murder. It was supposed that she too may possibly have been murdered. No one was ever charged with Rudi Jeczawitz's murder; his case remained on file. A few more details were given; informants had said that he had been at Birkenau. He had survived by entertaining the guards with his magic act.
Torsen's heart pounded as he read and reread the name of Jeczawitz's wife: Ruda. Coincidence number one. Number two: Rudi, like Tommy Kellerman, had been involved with forged documents. And then there was the third: All three were survivors of concentration camps. He paused, the fourth: Both men had been tattooed, and both had had their tattoo slashed from their arms.
Torsen jotted down a list. He had to find out if they had been legally married, find out Ruda Jeczawitz's maiden name, see whether there still was anyone alive who had known the magician and could describe him. But most important he had to know whether Ruda Kellerman was Ruda Jeczawitz...
Torsen was sweating, his lists grew longer. Next he wrote "boots"; he had supposed the boots had belonged to a man because of their size, had even asked Mrs. Grimaldi if they were her husband's boots. But what if they were her boots? Torsen let out a small whoop. He thumbed through his book until he found the page he was looking for. One of the bus drivers was sure no male passenger had gotten off his bus the night of Kellerman's murder, only a woman, described as... he stared at his scrawl, momentarily unable to read it, then he snapped the book closed. He knew he had to go back and interview the guy; all he had written down was: "female, dark-haired."
He grabbed his coat, shouted for Rieckert, his voice echoing in the empty building. He stormed through the empty offices and burst into the switchboard operator's cubbyhole.
"Where in God's name is everybody?"
She looked up at him in astonishment. "Tea break! They have gone across the street to the café for their tea break! It is four o'clock, sir!"
Chapter 12
"I am going to take you back in time now, Vebekka. Can you see the calendar, the years are in red ink... ninety-one, ninety... can you see the date, Vebekka?"
"Yes, I can see it."
"Go back, eighty-nine, ten years before that, go through the dates... what year do you see now on the calendar?"
Vebekka sighed. "Nineteen seventy-nine. It is 1979."
Franks looked to the two-way mirror, then turned to Vebekka.
The baron tapped Helen's hand. "That was the year of the newspapers."
Franks continued. "Go to the morning in New York when you were reading the newspaper, sitting having breakfast with your husband. Can you remember that morning?"
She sighed, gave a low moan, and then nodded. "I am reading the real estate pages... Louis is reading the main section. I talk to him, but he pays no attention, I tell him... an apartment is for sale, but he doesn't listen to me."
"Goon..."
She sighed and her brow furrowed as if she were trying to recall something.
"Go on, Vebekka, you see something in the paper?"