Berlin Burning Read Free Page A

once again how ineffective our current rulers are at dealing with the realities of today’s Germany...
    The piece ranted in similar vein for several more paragraphs. It bore a caricature of a stocky man – presumably the minister – grinding brownshirts under his brogues while back-slapping caricatures of Police President Grzesinski and his deputy – Trautmann’s boss – Bernhard Weiss.
    Weiss’ small, round Kiplingesque glasses were emphasised, his nose exaggerated into the usual Jewish hook. It made him look like a cross between a mole and the classic Levantine white-slaver of cheap pulp fiction.
    The minister’s caricature had a long, sloping forehead and eyes cut to slits above chubby cheeks, thick, negroid lips and a preposterously small waxed moustache.
    Trautmann sighed.
    â€˜You think the SA might be marking the minister out for more than just a little name calling?’ Roth said.
    â€˜Seems more of an attack on us than him.’
    â€˜Well...why pick out this particular story and pin it up. That’s all.’ Roth shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing.’
    â€˜No, no, you could have something. We’ll check with his office in the morning, see whether he’s received any threats.’
    â€˜There’s something else, too.’ Roth held up a small envelope. ‘I found some paper scraps in the ashes in the grate. Still just about readable, but we might want to wait till we get back to the Alex. They won’t stand up to too much scrutiny.’
    â€˜Well done, Roth.’ Trautmann patted the shoulder above the missing arm before he’d given himself time to think about it. Having done so he blustered through. Oh, for a fresh pipe, a glass of schnapps, and some madrigals on the phonograph.
    Roth got out his notebook and started sketching the room. Trautmann stole another glance at the framed photograph he’d propped on a nearby table.
    â€˜I’d better go and see this landlady Kessler was talking about,’ Trautmann said. ‘Get some more background on the happy couple.’ He picked up the frame with one of the gloves he was still holding. ‘You’ll be all right keeping the Schupo out?’
    Roth didn’t look up. ‘They’ll be at Bülowplatz, like I told you.’
    Trautmann tucked the frame under his arm and went to find out if the young woman in the photograph could be his killer.
    Chapter 3
    â€“–––––––
    K essler was not, in fact, on the rampage in Bülowplatz. He stood on the next landing up, talking to a woman in a green dressing gown whose face was slathered in cold cream. The sergeant took Trautmann by the arm and introduced him to the woman.
    â€˜This is Frau Schneider, the landlady I was telling you about.’
    â€˜Ah, yes of course.’ Trautmann put out a hand. The woman hesitated before taking it. Her eyes were red rimmed, her hair set in wiry black curls shot through with grey.
    Trautmann showed her the framed photo. ‘Is this Maria Fleischer?’
    Frau Schneider stared dumbly at the photo. Trautmann hustled her into her apartment and sat her on a stool at the kitchen table.
    â€˜Have you any schnapps?’ he asked, shooing Kessler back into the hall and shutting the door before resting the photo on the table.
    The woman pointed at a set of shelves crowded with tins and jars. Trautmann rooted around and found a dusty bottle of cooking brandy. He couldn’t find any glasses, so he rinsed out two coffee cups in the sink and brought them to the table. He filled them, pulled out his pipe and lighted it before the woman had a chance to protest.
    He took a sip of brandy and winced, puffing on his pipe to take away the harsh taste. He watched Frau Schneider compose herself, using up half the tobacco in his bowl before she’d done so.
    â€˜Maria came up here to see you and she was dripping blood,’ Trautmann said.