I felt Hildegard squeeze my hand more tightly.
‘Herr Vogelmann,’ she said, ‘it’s not knowing what’s happened to her that is so hard to bear. If we could just be sure of whether or not–’
‘I understand, Frau Steininger.’ He looked at me. ‘Am I to take it then that you wish me to try and find her?’
‘Would you, Herr Vogelmann?’ I said. ‘We saw your advertisement in the Beobachter, and really, you’re our last hope. We’re tired of just sitting back and waiting for something to happen. Aren’t we, darling?’
‘Yes. Yes, we are.’
‘Do you have a photograph of your daughter?’
Hildegard opened her handbag and handed him a copy of the picture that she had earlier given to Deubel.
Vogelmann regarded it dispassionately. ‘Pretty. How did she travel to Potsdam?’
‘By train.’
‘And you believe that she must have disappeared somewhere between your house in Steglitz and the dancing school, is that right?’ I nodded. ‘Any problems at home?’
‘None,’ Hildegard said firmly.
‘At school, then?’
We both shook our heads and Vogelmann scribbled a few notes.
‘Any boyfriends?’
I looked across at Hildegard.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I’ve searched her room, and there’s nothing to indicate that she had been seeing any boys.’
Vogelmann nodded sullenly and then was subject to a brief fit of coughing for which he apologized through the material of his handkerchief, and which left his face as red as his hair.
‘After four weeks, you’ll have checked with all her relations and schoolfriends that she hasn’t been staying with them.’ He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.
‘Naturally,’ Hildegard said stiffly.
‘We’ve asked everywhere,’ I said. ‘I’ve been along every metre of that journey looking for her and found nothing.’ This was almost literally true.
‘What was she wearing when she disappeared?’
Hildegard described her clothes.
‘What about money?’
‘A few marks. Her savings were untouched.’
‘All right. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out. You had better give me your address.’
I dictated it for him, and added the telephone number. When he’d finished writing he stood up, arched his back painfully, and then walked around a bit with his hands thrust deep into his pockets like an awkward schoolboy. By now I had guessed him to be no more than forty.
‘Go home and wait to hear from me. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days, or earlier if I find something.’
We stood up to leave.
‘What do you think are the chances of finding her alive?’ Hildegard said.
Vogelmann shrugged dismally. ‘I’ve got to admit that they’re not good. But I will do my best.’
‘What’s your first move?’ I said, curious.
He checked the knot of his tie again, and stretched his Adam’s apple over the collar stud. I held my breath as he turned to face me.
‘Well, I’ll start by getting some copies made of your daughter’s photograph. And then put them into circulation. This city has a lot of runaways, you know. There are a few children who don’t much care for the Hitler Youth and that sort of thing. I’ll make a start in that direction, Herr Steininger.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and accompanied us to the door.
‘Thank you,’ said Hildegard. ‘You’ve been most kind, Herr Vogelmann.’
I smiled and nodded politely. He bowed his head, and as Hildegard passed out of the door in front of me I caught him glancing down at her legs. You couldn’t blame him. In her beige wool bolero, dotted foulard blouse and burgundy wool skirt, she looked like a year’s worth of war reparations. It felt good just pretending to be married to her.
I shook Vogelmann’s hand and followed Hildegard outside, thinking to myself that if I were really her husband I would be driving her home to undress her and take her to bed.
It was an elegantly erotic daydream of silk and lace that I was conjuring up for myself as we left Vogelmann’s offices and went out into the street. Hildegard’s sexual appeal was something altogether more streamlined than steamy imaginings of bouncing breasts and buttocks. All the same, I knew that my little husband fantasy was short on probability since, in all likelihood, the real Herr Steininger, had he been alive, would almost certainly have driven his beautiful young wife home for nothing more stimulating than a cup of fresh coffee before returning to the bank where he worked. The simple fact of the matter is that a man who wakes alone will think of having a woman just as surely as a man who wakes with a wife will think of having breakfast.
‘So what did you make of him?’ she said when we were in the car driving back to Steglitz. ‘I thought he wasn’t as bad as he looked. In fact, he was quite sympathetic, really. Certainly no worse than your own men, Kommissar. I can’t imagine why we bothered.’
I let her go on like that for a minute or two.
‘It struck you as perfectly normal that there were so many obvious questions that he didn’t ask?’
She sighed. ‘Like what?’
‘He never mentioned his fee.’
‘I dare say that if he thought we couldn’t have afforded it, then he would have brought it up. And by the way, don’t expect me to take care of the account for this little experiment of yours.’
I told her that Kripo would pay for everything.
Seeing the distinctive dark-yellow of a cigarette-vending van, I pulled up and got out of the car. I bought a couple of packs and threw one in the glove-box. I tapped one out for her, then myself and lit us both.
‘It didn’t seem strange that he also neglected to ask how old Emmeline was, which school she attended, what the name of her dancing teacher was, where I worked, that sort of thing?’
She blew smoke out of both nostrils like an angry bull. ‘Not especially,’ she said. ‘At least, not until you mentioned it.’ She thumped the dashboard and swore. ‘But what if he had asked which school Emmeline goes to? What would you have done if he’d turned up there and found out that my real husband is dead? I’d like to know that.’
‘He wouldn’t have.’
‘You seem very sure of that. How do you know?’
‘Because I know how private detectives operate. They don’t like to walk right in after the police and ask all the same questions. Usually they like to come at a thing from the other side. Walk round it a bit before they see an opening.’
‘So you think that this Rolf Vogelmann is suspicious?’
‘Yes, I do. Enough to warrant detailing a man to keep an eye on his premises.’
She swore again, rather more loudly this time.
‘That’s the second time,’ I said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Why should anything be the matter? No indeed. Single ladies never mind people giving out their addresses and telephone numbers to those whom the police believe to be suspicious. That’s what makes living on one’s own so exciting. My daughter is missing, probably murdered, and now I have to worry that that horrible man might drop round one evening for a little chat about her.’ She was so angry she almost sucked the tobacco out of the cigarette paper. But even so, this time when we arrived at her apartment in Lepsius Strasse, she invited me inside.
I sat down on the sofa and listened to the sound of her urinating in the bathroom. It seemed strangely out of character for her not to be at all self-conscious about such a thing. Perhaps she didn’t care if I heard or not. I’m not sure that she even bothered to close the bathroom door.