'Like a hair on a widow's tit. Have you brought me a present?'
Rudi nodded and with a sly grin pulled one of his hands out of the muff. It held a revolver and it was pointed at my morning croissant. After a short, uncomfortable moment his grin widened and he released the handgrip to let the gun hang by the trigger-guard on his forefinger.
'If I stay in this city I'm going to have to shop for a new sense of humour,' I said, taking the revolver from him. It was a .38 Smith with a six-inch barrel and the words 'Military and Police' clearly engraved in the black finish. 'I suppose the bull who owned this let you have it for a few packets of cigarettes.' Rudi started to answer, but I got there first. 'Look, I told Becker a clean gun, not Exhibit A in a murder trial.'
'That's a new gun,' Rudi said indignantly. 'Squeeze your eye down the barrel.
It's still greased: hasn't been fired yet. I swear them at the top don't even know it's missing.'
'Where did you get it?'
'The Arsenal Warehouse. Honest, Herr Gunther, that gun's as clean as they come these days.'
I nodded reluctantly. 'Did you bring any ammunition?'
'There's six in it,' he said, and taking his other hand out of the muff laid a miserly handful of cartridges on to the sideboard, next to my two bottles from Traudl. 'And these.'
'What, did you buy them off the ration?'
Rudi shrugged. 'All I could get for the moment, I'm afraid. Eyeing the vodka he licked his lips.
'I've had my breakfast,' I told him, 'but you help yourself.'
'Just to keep the cold out, eh?' he said and poured a nervous glassful, which he quickly swallowed.
'Go ahead and have another. I never stand between a man and a good thirst.' I lit a cigarette and went over to the window. Outside, a Pan's pipes of icicles hung from the edge of the terrace roof. 'Especially on a day as chilly as this one.'
'Thanks,' said Rudi, 'thanks a lot.' He smiled thinly, and poured a second, steadier glass, which he sipped at slowly. 'So how's it coming along? The investigation, I mean.'
'If you've got any ideas I'd love to hear them. Right now the fish aren't exactly jumping on to the riverbank.'
Rudi flexed his shoulders. 'Well, the way I see it is that this Ami captain, the one that took the 71 '
He paused while I made the connection: the number 71 was the tram that went to the Central Cemetery. I nodded for him to continue.
'Well, he must have been involved in some kind of racket. Think about it,' he instructed, warming to his subject. 'He goes to a warehouse with some coat, and the place is stacked high with nails. I mean, why did they go there in the first place? It couldn't have been because the killer planned to shoot him there. He wouldn't have done it near his stash, would he? They must have gone to look at the merchandise, and had an argument.'
I had to admit there was something in what he said. I thought for a minute. 'Who sells cigarettes in Austria, Rudi?'
'Apart from everyone?'
'The main black-siders.'
'Excepting Emil, there's the Ivans; a mad American staff sergeant who lives in a castle near Salzburg; a Romanian Jew here in Vienna; and an Austrian named Kurtz. But Emil was the biggest. Most people have heard the name of Emil Becker in that particular connection.'
'Do you think it's possible that one of them could have framed Emil, to take him out of competition?'
'Sure. But not at the expense of losing all those nails. Forty cases of cigarettes, Herr Gunther. That's a big loss for someone to take.'
'When exactly was this tobacco factory on Thaliastrasse robbed?'
'Months ago.'
'Didn't the MPs have any idea who could have done it? Didn't they have any suspects?'
'Not a chance. Thaliastrasse is in the 16th Bezirk, part of the French sector.
The French MPs couldn't catch drip in this city.'
'What about the local bulls the Vienna police?'
Rudi shook his head firmly. 'Too busy fighting with the state police. The Ministry of the Interior has been trying to have the state mob absorbed into the regular force, but the Russians don't like it and are trying to fuck the thing up. Even if it means wrecking the whole force.' He grinned. 'I can't say I'd be sorry. No, the locals are almost as bad as the Frenchies. To be honest, the only bulls that are worth a damn in this city are the Amis. Even the Tommies are pretty stupid if you ask me.'
Rudi glanced at one of the several watches he had strapped to his arm. 'Look, I've got to go, otherwise I'll miss my pitch at Ressel. That's where you'll find me every morning if you need to, Herr Gunther. There, or at the Hauswirth сafe on Favoritenstrasse during the afternoon.' He drained his glass. 'Thanks for the drink.'
'Favoritenstrasse,' I repeated, frowning. 'That's in the Russian sector, isn't it?'
'True,' said Rudi. 'But it doesn't make me a Communist.' He raised his little hat and smiled. 'Just prudent.'
Chapter 18
The sad aspect to her face, with its downcast eyes and the tilt of her thickening jaw, not to mention her cheap and secondhand-looking clothes, made me think that Veronika could not have made much out of being a prostitute. And certainly there was nothing about the cold, cavern-sized room she rented in the heart of the city's red-light district that indicated anything other than an eked-out, hand-to-mouth kind of existence.
She thanked me again for helping her and, having inquired solicitously after my bruises, proceeded to make a pot of tea while she explained that one day she was planning to become an artist. I looked through her drawings and watercolours without much enjoyment.
Profoundly depressed by my gloomy surroundings, I asked her how it was that she had ended up on the sledge. This was foolish, because it never does to challenge a whore about anything, least of all her own immorality, and my only excuse was that I felt genuinely sorry for her. Had she once had a husband who had seen her frenching an Ami in a ruined building for a couple of bars of chocolate?
'Who said I was on the sledge?' she responded tartly.
I shrugged. 'It's not coffee that keeps you up half the night.'
'Maybe so. All the same, you won't find me working in one of those places on the Gnrtel where the numbers just walk up the stairs. And you won't find me selling it on the street outside the American Information Office, or the Atlantis Hotel.
Chocolady I may be, but I'm no sparkler. I have to like the gentleman.'
'That won't stop you getting hurt. Like last night, for instance. Not to mention venereal disease.'
'Listen to yourself,' she said with amused contempt. 'You sound just like one of those bastards in the vice squad. They pick you up, have a doctor examine you for a dose and then give you a lecture on the perils of drip. You're beginning to sound like a bull.'
'Maybe the police are right. Ever think of that?'
'Well, they never found anything wrong with me. Nor will they.' She smiled a shrewd little smile. 'Like I said, I'm careful. I have to like the gentleman.
Which means I won't do Ivans or niggers.'
'Nobody ever heard of an Ami or a Tommy with syphilis, I suppose.'
'Look, you play the percentages.' She scowled. 'What the hell do you know about it anyway? Saving my ass doesn't give you the right to read me the Ten Commandments, Bernie.'
'You don't have to be a swimmer to throw someone a life-preserver. I've met enough snappers in my time to know that most of them started out as selective as you. Then someone comes along and beats the shit out of them, and the next time, with the landlord chasing for his rent, they can't afford to be quite as choosy.
You talk about percentages. Well, there's not much percentage in french for ten schillings when you're forty. You're a nice girl, Veronika. If there were a priest around he'd maybe think you were worth a short homily, but since there isn't you'll have to make do with me.'
She smiled sadly and stroked my hair. 'You're not so bad. Not that I have any idea why you think it necessary. I'm really quite all right. I've got money saved. Soon I'll have enough to get myself into an art-school somewhere.'
