The Pale Criminal (26 page)

Frau Lange blinked deliberately and shook her head.

‘I'm afraid that I have absolutely no idea.'

I shrugged and allowed myself a little smile. ‘Well, as I say, it just puzzled me, that's all. Nothing important. Do you sign all the company cheques, Frau Lange? I mean, I just wondered if this might be something your son could have done on his own without informing you. Like buying that magazine you told me about. Now what was its name?
Urania.'

Clearly embarrassed, Frau Lange's face was beginning to redden. She swallowed hard before answering.

‘Reinhard has signing power over a limited bank account which is supposed to cover his expenses as a company director. However, I'm at a loss to explain what this might relate to, Herr Gunther.'

‘Well, maybe he got tired of astrology. Maybe he decided to become a private investigator himself. To tell the truth, Frau Lange, there are times when a horoscope is as good a way of finding something out as any other.'

‘I shall make a point of asking Reinhard about this when I next see him. I'm indebted to you for the information. Would you mind telling me where you got it from?'

‘The information? Sorry, I make it a strict rule never to breach confidentiality. I'm sure you understand.'

She nodded curtly, and bade me good evening.

Back in the hall the black cauldron was still simmering over her floor.

‘You know what I'd recommend?' I said.

‘What's that?' she said sullenly.

‘I think you should give Frau Lange's son a call at his magazine. Maybe he can work up a magic spell to shift those marks.'

When I first suggested the idea to Hildegard Steininger, she had been less than enthusiastic.

‘Let me get this straight. You want to pose as my husband?'

‘That's right.'

‘In the first place, my husband is dead. And in the second you don't look anything like him, Herr Kommissar.'

‘In the first place I'm counting on this man not knowing that the real Herr Steininger is dead; and in the second, I don't suppose that he would have any more idea of what your husband might have looked like than I do.'

‘Exactly who is this Rolf Vogelmann, anyway?'

‘An investigation like this one is nothing more than a search for a pattern, for a common factor. Here the common factor is that we've discovered Vogelmann was retained by the parents of two other girls.'

‘Two other victims, you mean,' she said. ‘I know that other girls have disappeared and then been found murdered, you know. There may be nothing about it in the papers, but one hears things all the time.'

‘Two other victims, then,' I admitted.

‘But surely that's just a coincidence. Listen, I can tell you that I've thought of doing it myself, you know, paying someone to look for my daughter. After all, you still haven't found a trace of her, have you?'

‘That's true. But it may be more than just a coincidence. That's what I'd like to find out.'

‘Supposing that he is involved. What could he hope to gain from it?'

‘We're not necessarily talking about a rational person here. So I don't know that gain will come into the equation.'

‘Well, it all sounds very dubious to me,' she said. ‘I mean, how did he get in touch with these two families?'

‘He didn't. They got in touch with him after seeing his newspaper advertisement.'

‘Doesn't that show that if he is a common factor, then it's not been through his own making?'

‘Perhaps he just wants it to look that way. I don't know. All the same I'd like to find out more, even if it's just to rule him out.'

She crossed her long legs and lit a cigarette.

‘Will you do it?'

‘Just answer this question first, Kommissar. And I want an honest answer. I'm tired of all the evasions. Do you think that Emmeline can still be alive?'

I sighed and then shook my head. ‘I think she's dead.'

‘Thank you.' There was silence for a moment. ‘Is it dangerous, what you're asking me to do?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Then I agree.'

Now, as we sat in Vogelmann's waiting-room in his offices on Nürnburgerstrasse, under the eye of his matronly secretary, Hildegard Steininger played the part of the worried wife to perfection, holding my hand, and occasionally smiling at me smiles of the kind that are normally reserved for a loved one. She was even wearing her wedding-ring. So was I. It felt strange, and tight, on my finger after so many years. I'd needed soap to slide it on.

Through the wall could be heard the sound of a piano being played.

‘There's a music school next door,' explained Vogelmann's secretary. She smiled kindly and added: ‘He won't keep you waiting for very long.' Five minutes later we were ushered into his office.

In my experience the private investigator is prone to several common ailments: flat feet, varicose veins, a bad back, alcoholism and, God forbid, venereal disease; but none of them, with the possible exception of the clap, is likely to influence adversely the impression he makes on a potential client. However, there is one disability, albeit a minor one, which if found in a sniffer must give the client pause for thought, and that is short-sightedness. If you are going to pay a man fifty marks a day to trace your missing grandmother, at the very least you want to feel confident that the man you are engaging to do the job is sufficiently eagle-eyed to find his own cuff-links. Spectacles of bottle-glass thickness such as those worn by Rolf Vogelmann must therefore be considered bad for business.

Ugliness, on the other hand, where it stops short of some particular and gross physical deformity, need be no professional disadvantage, and so Vogelmann, whose unpleasant aspect was something more general, was probably able to peck at some sort of a living. I say peck, and I choose my words carefully, because with his unruly comb of curly red hair, his broad beak of a nose and his great breast-plate of a chest, Vogelmann resembled a breed of prehistoric cockerel, and one that had positively begged for extinction.

Hitching his trousers on to his chest, Vogelmann strode round the desk on big policeman's feet to shake our hands. He walked as if he had just dismounted a bicycle.

‘Rolf Vogelmann, pleased to meet you both,' he said in a high, strangulated sort of voice, and with a thick Berlin accent.

‘Steininger,' I said. ‘And this is my wife Hildegard.'

Vogelmann pointed at two armchairs that were ranged in front of a large desk-table, and I heard his shoes squeak as he followed us back across the rug. There wasn't much in the way of furniture. A hat stand, a drinks trolley, a long and battered-looking sofa and, behind it, a table against the wall with a couple of lamps and several piles of books.

‘It's good of you to see us this quickly,' Hildegard said graciously.

Vogelmann sat down and faced us. Even with a metre of desk between us I could still detect his yoghurt-curdling breath.

‘Well, when your husband mentioned that your daughter was missing, naturally I assumed there would be some urgency.' He wiped a pad of paper with the flat of his hand and picked up a pencil. ‘Exactly when did she go missing?'

‘Thursday, 22 September,' I said. ‘She was on her way to dancing class in Potsdam and had left home – we live in Steglitz – at seven-thirty that evening. Her class was due to commence at eight, only she never arrived.' Hildegard's hand reached for mine, and I squeezed it comfortingly.

Vogelmann nodded. ‘Almost a month, then,' he said ruminatively. ‘And the police–?'

‘The police?' I said bitterly. ‘The police do nothing. We hear nothing. There is nothing in the papers. And yet one hears rumours that other girls of Emmeline's age have also disappeared.' I paused. ‘And that they have been murdered.'

‘That is almost certainly the case,' he said, straightening the knot in his cheap woollen tie. ‘The official reason for the press moratorium on the reporting of these disappearances and homicides is that the police wish to avoid a panic. Also, they don't wish to encourage all the cranks which a case like this has a habit of producing. But the real reason is that they are simply embarrassed at their own persistent inability to capture this man.'

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.'