The Man from Berlin Read Online Free PDF Page B

between his fingertips and turned and lifted it to the light. He passed the strand of film through his fingers but it was blank. The rest of the rack, where there was space for a couple of dozen tins, was empty. He nodded to Claussen.
    â€˜The uniforms told us the neighbour might have seen something.’
    â€˜Anything else?’
    â€˜Not really, sir, and I was free with the smokes. Hueber did most of the talking, but they’re being pretty close-lipped. Especially after that big fellow gave them a right beasting before he left.’
    â€˜Yes, I saw that.’
    Reinhardt looked around the room again. He doubted he would be back so whatever he needed to take in terms of impressions or conclusions from the murder scene, he needed them now. Taking a deep breath, he turned back into the study, looking down its length, running his eyes over the books in a half dozen languages, objects that looked like they had been collected in a dozen countries.
    â€˜Bloody hell, sir,’ came Claussen’s voice from the darkroom. ‘There’s pictures of her here with about every general in the Wehr­macht. Guderian. Hoth. There’s one here with Kesselring. One with Goering…’ Claussen’s voice trailed off into muttered remarks.
    Taking his handkerchief from his pocket again, Reinhardt opened the desk drawers one by one but saw no sign of anything that looked like an address book. Straightening, he looked back at the bookcase. On a bottom shelf, next to the door, he spotted a gap, books missing. Squatting, he ran his eyes over them. They were all of differing sizes and textures, but each one was carefully annotated along the spine with dates. He opened one or two at random. They were journals, or diaries. They went back a long way, until 1917, the later years covered by two, even three books. The writing was wide and childish in the earlier ones, closer and neater, denser, in the later ones. Pursing his mouth he stared at where the journals for 1942 and 1943 once were. Looking around, he noticed how much it resembled a man’s room, rather than a woman’s.
    Claussen was standing not far away, seemingly absorbed in the picture of the begging soldier. Reinhardt straightened up. ‘Sergeant?’ he said softly.
    Claussen turned and looked at him, then back at the picture. ‘You know, for a moment, I thought that it looked like a friend,’ he said softly. ‘Boeckel. Poor sod got most of himself blown off at Naroch.’ The sergeant shook his head, and Reinhardt left him to it, running his eyes over the room one last time and walking back into the living room.
    Standing in the centre of the room he looked around, turning slowly, trying to imagine what had happened. There were two glasses on the coffee table. There was a fight. Someone kills the soldier. Takes Vukić into the bedroom, rapes her, beats her. Stabs her to death. No. That did not feel right. Besides, there were the champagne glasses in the bedroom. Vukić and whoever was with her, they took their time, had fun about it. So what went wrong? And why was Hendel shot, when Vukić was stabbed? He looked from the bedroom to Hendel’s body, the study, the ransacked darkroom. Back to the bodies, where Hendel lay sprawled across the floor, and Vukić, seemingly at rest on herbed.
    Someone was looking for something, came the thought. Searching the study, the darkroom. But they heard a noise… He shook his head. It felt elusive, too light. Not enough evidence.
    He turned as Claussen came into the room. ‘I’m going to go and find my new partner. Inspector Padelin.’
    â€˜He’ll be the one giving the maid hell, would he?’ quipped Claussen. As they arrived at the stairs, Reinhardt paused, looking up as the sound of voices drew him down.
    â€˜Sergeant, have a quick look up there. Don’t touch anything. Just see what’s there.’
    The kitchen was as well appointed as the bathroom