softened his classic Nordic face. Or the eyes, he thought.
Rapist's eyes.
'The photographer tells me that you discovered a card on the premises. A
card with only a telephone number. Where is this card now?'
'I didn't actually find it,' Schneider said, slipping his right hand
into his trouser pocket. 'Patrolman Ebert did.'
Schneider fingered the white card and watched Luhr's face.
'I'm not sure where it is now. I had it, but I think Officer Beck asked
me for it. He's still here, I believe.'
'What have you got in your pocket?' Luhr asked sharply.
Schneider slowly withdrew his hand. He held the brass gorget plate and
chain that identified him as a Kripo detective.
With a hiss of frustration Luhr went in search of Officer Beck.
As soon as he disappeared, Schneider pulled a ballpoint pen from his
shirt pocket and copied the number from the card onto the palm of his
hand. Then he followed Luhr into the house.
'Lieutenant?' he called. 'Herr Lieutenant!'
Luhr barrelled back through the front door, his face flushed with anger.
'I'm sorry, Lieutenant.' Schneider shook his head as if he were a fool
and knew it. 'That card was in my coat pocket all the time. I could
have sworn I gave it to Beck. Here you are.'
Luhr snatched the card. 'Officer Beck says he never asked you for the
card!'
Schneider continued shaking his head. 'Must have been somebody else. I
tell you, past midnight and my mind just goes.'
'I suggest, Detective,' Luhr said acidly, 'that you either get more
sleep or look for a new line of work. Have you had anyone trace this
number yet?'
'No, sir. Not yet.'
'I'll handle it, then.'
While Luhr stalked out to his unmarked Audi, Schneider stood in the
foyer and scratched his large head. Something had felt wrong about this
case from the moment he walked in the door. While everyone else had
gone on about the sloppiness of the murder, Schneider had kept silent.
Twenty minutes later the nameless card had turned up. And now this
Nazi-looking lieutenant had appeared-the prefect's aide, no less-to
spirit that card away.
Schneider couldn't remember ever having seen Luhr at a crime scene
before. That bothered him. He hurried past the few technicians left
outside the house and climbed into his battered Opel Kadett.
'Telephone,' he murmured as he cranked the old car.
Jiirgen Luhr had beat him to it. As Schneider rounded the corner of
Levetzow and Bachstrasse, he spied the prefect's aide standing at a
corner call box. Schneider slowed, then drove on, maddeningly shut out
of the conversation passing through the wires just over his head.
'Frau Funk?' Luhr asked, when a woman answered. 'I'm sorry to disturb
you so late. This is Jijrgen Luhr. Could I speak with the prefect,
please? ... But he was leaving the station-' Luhr broke the connection
and punched in the number of Abschnitt 53. 'Berlin-Two,' he snapped.
'The prefect, immediately.'
A full minute passed before Funk came on the line, his voice smug and
unruffled in contrast to, its earlier panic.
'Yes, Jiirgen?'
'I've found something odd at the Tiergarten house. A card with nothing
but a phone number on it. We should trace it immediately. The crime
looked very suspicious. Evidence of automatic weapons fire, conflicting
signs of amateurishness and professionalism. I think our brothers in
uniform may have, been there.'
'How interesting,' said Funk. 'Why don't you come back to the station
and we'll discuss your theory.'
'What's the matter? Is someone with you?'
A pause. 'There was someone here, Jijrgen. Sergeant Ross just took her
downstairs to her new accommodations.'
'Her? Who are you talking aboutt' 'The wife of one of our 'brothers in
uniform,' as you put it. A Frau Ilse Apfel. She walked into the
station just after you left. She had a most interesting story to tell.'
'What? The sergeant's wife?'
'That's right. I understand the situation much better after talking to
her. I suggest you get back here, Jiirgen, if you want to be in on this
at all. I've already spoken to Pretoria.
I received some very interesting orders, and they involve YOU.'
Luhr left the receiver dangling from the call box and dashed to his car.
He squealed down the Bachstrasse in a rage. 'Damn that imbecile! How
could he be so lucky?' He screeched around a curve.
'It's all right,' he assured himself, calming a little. 'He hasn't
found Hauer or Apfel yet.
Or the Spandau papers. And that's what Phoenix wantswhat he's
frightened of. And that distinction will be mine.'
In his fury, Luhr failed to notice the burly figure of Detective Julius
Schneider standing at a yellow call box four blocks from the one he had
used to place his own call. Unlike Luhr, Schneider wasn't about to try
to trace the mysterious phone number through normal channels.
An inquiry in his own name might draw unpleasant attention, possibly
even the prefect's, and Schneider didn't need that. Besides, he had
always believed in taking the shortest route between two points.
Reading the telephone number off the palm of his hand, he lifted the
receiver and punched in the digits. He heard five rings, then a click
followed by the familiar hiss and crackle of an automated answering
machine.
'This is Harry Richardson,' said a metallic voice. 'I'm out.
Friends can leave a message at the tone. If you're a salesperson, don't
call back. If it's a military matter, call my office. The previous
message will be repeated in German.
Thank you.'
Schneider waited until the German version of the message had finished,
then hung up. His pulse, normally as steady as a hibernating bear's,
was racing. Schneider knew who Harry Richardson was. He'd even met him
once. American intelligence officers who took the time to cultivate
investigators of the Kriminalpolizei were rare enough to remember.
