Part 32 (2/2)
”I think it is time for you to leave, Dr. Turnbull.”
”I think so, too. Your memory's not getting any better.”
Nat stood. Stuckart struggled to his feet.
”Remember,” the old man said, ”you have your threats, but I also have mine. If you do not keep your word, I will not hesitate to take action.”
”Don't worry, Herr Schmidt. I know how to keep a secret.”
”Oh, I am not at all worried. You're the one who should be worried.”
For all the excitement of the encounter, Nat realized as he was describing it to Berta that he really hadn't learned much new information. As a result, she was suitably unimpressed. The one item that seemed like a genuine revelation-verification that Liesl Folkerts had been Bauer's girlfriend-bounced right off her. Meaning she probably already knew. He considered telling her that he had found her stash of photographs, then decided against it. No sense bickering just before their important meeting with Gollner.
”You should have called me in,” she said. ”I could have gotten more out of him.”
”You'd have only gotten us thrown out of the house quicker. Besides, Gollner's transcript should tell us what Stuckart was trying to hide.”
”Maybe.”
They grabbed a quick lunch at a nearby Imbiss. Feeling upbeat about their prospects, he ordered a Schulteiss lager with his Currywurst. Maybe they would soon have something to celebrate.
WHEN THE APPOINTED HOUR ARRIVED, Martin Gollner was waiting for them on the sidewalk outside his building. It was immediately clear he was in no condition to transact business.
His body was flattened against the pavement with his black overcoat fanned out around him like the garments of a melted witch. Two policemen stood over the body while a third taped off the scene. Gollner's skull had split on impact. The crack oozed pink foam like an overripe melon. Blood pooled around his open mouth. His house slippers had somehow remained on his stocking feet.
Nat looked up toward the fifth floor, where lace curtains blew out from Gollner's open window. Was it his imagination, or did he hear the oompah blat of a tuba issuing faintly from the neighbor's nonstop Oktoberfest? One of the policemen pulled back the flaps of Gollner's overcoat. No papers of any kind were visible.
”Come on,” Nat hissed. ”Let's try to get in while there's still a chance.”
They dashed through the building's open front door, and they were out of breath by the time they reached the fifth-floor landing. Bra.s.sy music was indeed playing loudly from the apartment across the hall, and Gollner's door was ajar. They pa.s.sed through to the living room with its flapping curtains. No sign of any doc.u.ments. They reached the door of the bedroom just as a middle-aged cop in plastic gloves looked up from Gollner's bureau.
”What's going on? Who the h.e.l.l are you?”
”We, uh ... had an appointment with Herr Goll ... uh, Mannheim.”
”Well, this is a crime scene, and you've f.u.c.ked it up enough already, so don't move a muscle.” He approached them with a weary air. ”Identification, please.” Exactly what Nat had hoped to avoid. ”C'mon. Both of you.”
The cop scanned the entry stamp in Nat's pa.s.sport.
”American,” he muttered. ”You arrived only yesterday?”
”Yes.”
”From where?”
”Zurich.”
”What is your business here?”
”I'm a historian. Here's my university ID. Mannheim was an old Gestapo man, named Martin Gollner. Was he pushed?”
The policeman took the ID while ignoring the question.
”Someday we'll be through with all of these people,” he said. ”Then there will be no more of their messes to clean up. Then all we'll have is old people dying the way they always do, with no complications from the past. My partner will want to speak with both of you.”
A half hour later they were back on the sidewalk, having just finished speaking with a detective, who said he might want to talk with them later as well. Nat watched as Gollner's body was carted to an ambulance. His only sorrow was of a professional nature, and not simply because they had missed out on the transcript. Gollner's death meant that another portal to the past had closed forever. One less eyewitness to the most murderous era in history.
He now had to confront the issue of Berta Heinkel. In revealing the whereabouts of Stuckart she had presumably placed her last card on the table, and no matter what Holland said, Nat needed to get away from her. The woman trailed death like the train of a wedding gown, and he didn't want to be the next person to trip on it. It was time for a clean break.
”Maybe we could come back later,” Berta said. ”See if we can get in.”
”I've no doubt you you could. You're pretty skilled in that department.” could. You're pretty skilled in that department.”
”What do you mean?”
”Larceny of all kinds. You're the expert.”
”I admitted I was overzealous at the archives, but-”
”I was talking about the storage locker. The way you followed Gordon there and then broke in. Climbed a fence, wore a cap. You should see the surveillance video-you're a star. For a plain old historian you really are mult.i.talented. You can jimmy a lock, fake a license, seduce a source. Seduce. No wonder you like that word. It's your best trick, pun intended. So I'm sure you'd be able to get into this dump. But you heard the cop. There were no papers found. Nothing suspicious except the way he died, flying out the window in his overcoat. So tell me, did you break into the jail, too, on the night Gordon died? Or did you just pay someone else to mix too many pills into his dinner?”
Berta's mouth was agape, her eyes shocked. He had blindsided her, and for the first time since they'd met she seemed truly fl.u.s.tered. Even the confrontation over her thievery at the National Archives hadn't unstrung her like this. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.
”Pills? What are you talking about?”
”Ask Willis Turner.”
”I didn't kill Dr. Wolfe. I could never kill anyone. You'd know that if you really knew me.”
”I don't think I'm willing to take the risk of really knowing you. Turner and Holland would be happy to take your offer, though. Why don't you call them?”
”When did you talk to them?”
”Does it matter?”
His cell phone rang.
”That's one of them now, isn't it?” she said. ”I guess you've missed your time to report in on me. Like an informant.”
”You should know. You're the one with the Stasi file.”
She slapped him, hard, then turned away just as her face dissolved into tears. He had expected the anger, but not this. She sobbed as his phone rang again, but as he stepped toward her she broke into a run, coat flapping, just like Gollner's must have done as he sailed to his death. Let her go, he told himself. Wasn't this exactly what he wanted?
The cops were watching the dustup with interest, so he turned in the opposite direction to take the call. The screen showed that it was from a blocked number.
”Nat?”
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