body. “Flakes of leather, it seems.” He looked at them carefully. “Old and dry. Brown. Too stiff to be from gloves. Maybe shoes or a belt or old satchel or suitcase that either the killer or victim was carrying.”
He scooped these flakes up and placed them in another brown envelope then moistened the gum and sealed it.
“We have a witness, sir,” one of the younger Schupo officers called. “Though he’s not very cooperative.”
Witness. Excellent! Kohl followed the man back towardthe mouth of the alley. There, another Schupo officer was prodding forward a man in his forties, Kohl estimated. He was dressed in worker’s clothes. His left eye was glass and his right arm dangled uselessly at his side. One of the four million who survived the War but were left with bodies forever changed by the unfathomable experience.
The Schupo officer pushed him toward Kohl.
“That will do, Officer,” the inspector said sternly. “Thank you.” Turning to the witness, he asked, “Now, your card.”
The man handed over his ID. Kohl glanced at it. He forgot everything on the document the instant he returned it, but even a cursory examination of papers by a police officer made witnesses extremely cooperative.
Though not in all cases.
“I wish to be helpful. But as I told the officer, sir, I didn’t actually see much of anything.” He fell silent.
“Yes, yes, tell me what you actually did see.” An impatient gesture from Kohl’s thick hand.
“Yes, Inspector. I was scrubbing the basement stairs at Number forty-eight. There.” He pointed out of the alley to a town house. “As you can see. I was below the level of the sidewalk. I heard what I took to be a backfire.”
Kohl grunted. Since ’33 no one but an idiot assumed backfires; they assumed bullets.
“I thought nothing of it and continued scrubbing.” He proved this by pointing to his damp shirt and trousers. “Then ten minutes later I heard a whistle.”
“Whistle? A police whistle?”
“No, sir, I mean, as someone would make through his teeth. It was quite loud. I glanced up and saw a man walk out of the alley. The whistle was to hail a taxi. It stopped infront of my building and I heard the man ask the driver to take him to the Summer Garden restaurant.”
Whistling? Kohl reflected. This was unusual. One whistled for dogs and horses. But to summon a taxi this way would demean the driver. In Germany all professions and trades were worthy of equal respect. Did this suggest that the suspect was a foreigner? Or merely rude? He jotted the observation into his notebook.
“The number of the taxi?” Kohl had to ask, of course, but received the expected response.
“Oh, I have no idea, sir.”
“Summer Garden.” This was a common name. “Which one?”
“I believe I heard ‘Rosenthaler Street.’”
Kohl nodded, excited to find such a good lead this early in an investigation. “Quickly—what did the man look like?”
“I was below the stairs, sir, as I said. I saw only his back as he hailed the car. He was a large man, more than two meters tall. Broad but not fat. He had an accent, though.”
“What kind? From a different region of Germany? Or a different country?”
“Similar to someone from the south, if anything. But I have a brother near Munich and it sounded different still.”
“Outside the country, perhaps? Many foreigners here now, with the Olympics.”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve spent all my life in Berlin. And I’ve only been out of the fatherland once.” He nodded toward his useless arm.
“Did he have a leather satchel?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
To Janssen, Kohl said, “The likely source of the leather flakes.” He turned back. “And you didn’t see his face?”
“No, sir. As I say.”
Kohl’s voice lowered. “If I were to tell you that I won’t take your name, so you would not be further involved, could you perhaps remember better what he looked like?”
“Honestly, sir, I did not see his
He scooped these flakes up and placed them in another brown envelope then moistened the gum and sealed it.
“We have a witness, sir,” one of the younger Schupo officers called. “Though he’s not very cooperative.”
Witness. Excellent! Kohl followed the man back towardthe mouth of the alley. There, another Schupo officer was prodding forward a man in his forties, Kohl estimated. He was dressed in worker’s clothes. His left eye was glass and his right arm dangled uselessly at his side. One of the four million who survived the War but were left with bodies forever changed by the unfathomable experience.
The Schupo officer pushed him toward Kohl.
“That will do, Officer,” the inspector said sternly. “Thank you.” Turning to the witness, he asked, “Now, your card.”
The man handed over his ID. Kohl glanced at it. He forgot everything on the document the instant he returned it, but even a cursory examination of papers by a police officer made witnesses extremely cooperative.
Though not in all cases.
“I wish to be helpful. But as I told the officer, sir, I didn’t actually see much of anything.” He fell silent.
“Yes, yes, tell me what you actually did see.” An impatient gesture from Kohl’s thick hand.
“Yes, Inspector. I was scrubbing the basement stairs at Number forty-eight. There.” He pointed out of the alley to a town house. “As you can see. I was below the level of the sidewalk. I heard what I took to be a backfire.”
Kohl grunted. Since ’33 no one but an idiot assumed backfires; they assumed bullets.
“I thought nothing of it and continued scrubbing.” He proved this by pointing to his damp shirt and trousers. “Then ten minutes later I heard a whistle.”
“Whistle? A police whistle?”
“No, sir, I mean, as someone would make through his teeth. It was quite loud. I glanced up and saw a man walk out of the alley. The whistle was to hail a taxi. It stopped infront of my building and I heard the man ask the driver to take him to the Summer Garden restaurant.”
Whistling? Kohl reflected. This was unusual. One whistled for dogs and horses. But to summon a taxi this way would demean the driver. In Germany all professions and trades were worthy of equal respect. Did this suggest that the suspect was a foreigner? Or merely rude? He jotted the observation into his notebook.
“The number of the taxi?” Kohl had to ask, of course, but received the expected response.
“Oh, I have no idea, sir.”
“Summer Garden.” This was a common name. “Which one?”
“I believe I heard ‘Rosenthaler Street.’”
Kohl nodded, excited to find such a good lead this early in an investigation. “Quickly—what did the man look like?”
“I was below the stairs, sir, as I said. I saw only his back as he hailed the car. He was a large man, more than two meters tall. Broad but not fat. He had an accent, though.”
“What kind? From a different region of Germany? Or a different country?”
“Similar to someone from the south, if anything. But I have a brother near Munich and it sounded different still.”
“Outside the country, perhaps? Many foreigners here now, with the Olympics.”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve spent all my life in Berlin. And I’ve only been out of the fatherland once.” He nodded toward his useless arm.
“Did he have a leather satchel?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
To Janssen, Kohl said, “The likely source of the leather flakes.” He turned back. “And you didn’t see his face?”
“No, sir. As I say.”
Kohl’s voice lowered. “If I were to tell you that I won’t take your name, so you would not be further involved, could you perhaps remember better what he looked like?”
“Honestly, sir, I did not see his
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