“So?”
“So how did he get into Potsdam? If it was closed off?” “What the hell. You did,” Tommy said, watching him. “Of course, you have an honest face.”
The piano music was coming through the open windows, not Mendelssohn this time but Broadway, party songs. Inside, the house was filled with uniforms and smoke and the clink of glasses. Gelferstrasse was entertaining. Jake stood for a minute in the hall, watching. There was the usual hum of conversation, laced with Russian from a group standing near the spread of cold cuts, and the usual music, but it was a cocktail party without women, oddly dispirited, looking for someone to flirt with. Men stood in groups talking shop or sometimes not saying anything at all, lifting glasses from the trays passed by the old couple and tossing them back quickly, as if they knew already that nothing better was going to come along. The host seemed to be Colonel Muller, whose silver hair moved through the crowd as he introduced people, occasionally getting clamped on the shoulder by a friendly Russian, as awkward and unlikely in the role as Judge Hardy himself would have been. Jake headed for the stairs.
“Geismar, come in,” Muller said, handing him a glass. “Sorry we had to requisition the dining room, but there’s plenty of grub. You’re welcome to whatever’s left.” In fact, the dining table, pushed against the wall, was still heaped with ham and salami and smoked fish, a banquet.
“What’s the occasion?”
“We’re having the Russians over,” Muller said, making them sound like a couple. “They like parties. They invite us to Karlshorst, then we invite them here. Back and forth. It greases the wheels.”
“With vodka.”
Muller smiled. “They don’t mind bourbon either.”
“Let me take a rain check. I can’t speak a word of Russian.”
“A few of them speak German. Anyway, in a while it won’t matter. It’s always a little awkward at first,” he said, looking toward the party, “but after they’ve had a few, they just say things in Russian and you nod and they laugh and we’re all good fellows.”
“Allies and brothers.”
“Actually, yes. It’s important to them, this stuff. They don’t like being left out. So we don’t.“ He took a drink. ”This isn’t what it looks like. It’s work.“
Jake held up his glass. “And somebody’s got to do it.” ‹›Muller nodded. “That’s right, somebody does. Nobody told me I’d end up feeding drinks to Russians, but that’s what we do now, so I do it and I could use a new face to liven things up.' He smiled. ‹›“Besides, you owe me a favor. Lieutenant Erlich says I’m supposed to chew you out, but I’m going to let it pass.“
“You’re supposed to?”
“You mean, who am I? I guess we didn’t meet. With the congressman giving speeches. I’m Colonel Muller. Fred,” he said, extending his hand. “I work for General Clay.”
“Doing what?”
“I look after some of the functional departments. Keep them in line when I have to. Lieutenant Erlich’s one of them.”
Jake smiled. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
Muller nodded again. “I’d take the Russians any day. They’re touchy, but they don’t write home. Your bunch is more trouble.”
“So why are you going to let it pass?”
“You getting out to Potsdam? Ordinarily I wouldn’t. But I don’t see that it’s done anybody any harm.” He paused. “I served with General Patton. He said to look out for you, you were a friend to the army.”
“Everybody’s a friend to the army.”
“You wouldn’t know it from the papers back home. They come over here, don’t know the first thing, just point fingers to get themselves noticed.”
“Maybe I’m no different.”
“Maybe not. But a man puts in time with the army, he’s more likely to see the whole thing, not try to make a mountain out of a molehill.”
Jake looked over the rim of his glass. “I found a man’s body, and so far nobody’s even asked me about it. Is that the molehill you had in mind?”
Muller stared back. “All right, I’m asking you. Is there anything we should know?”
“I know he was shot. I know he was carrying a lot of cash. I may be a friend to the army, but you try to keep what I do know quiet and it’s like waving red meat at a dog. I get curious.”
Muller sighed. “Nobody’s trying to hide anything.” He looked away at the party, then back at Jake. “Nobody’s going to start anything either. There are almost two hundred reporters assigned to Berlin. They’re all looking for something to write about. So they go see the bunker, cash in some cigarettes over at Zoo Station. Next thing you know, everybody’s in the black market. Well, maybe everybody is, a little. What’s ordinary here isn’t ordinary at home.”
“Is it ordinary to get shot?”
“More than you’d think,” he said wearily. “The war’s not over here. Look at them,” he said, indicating the Russians. “Toasts. Their men are still all over, drunk half the time. Last week a jeepload of them start waving guns down in Hermannplatz-our zone-and before you could say boo, one of our MPs starts shooting and we’re back at the O.K. Corral. Three dead, one ours. So we protest to the Russians and they protest back and there are still three people dead. Ordinary.”
He turned to face Jake, his eyes gentle. “Look, we’re not angels here. You know what an occupation army does? It occupies. They pull guard duty. They stand in front of buildings. They’ve got nothing but time. So they bitch and chase girls and make a little money selling their PX rations, which they’re not supposed to do but they figure they’re entitled, they won the war, and maybe they’re right. And sometimes they get into trouble. Sometimes they even get shot. It happens.” He paused. “But it doesn’t have to be an international incident. And it doesn’t have to make the army look bad. It’s what happens here.”
“But they’ll file a report. It’s still not that ordinary, is it?”
“And you want to see it.”
“I’m curious, that’s all. I never found a body before.”
Muller looked at him, appraising. “It might take a while. We don’t know who he is yet.”
“I know who he is.”
Muller raised his eyes. “I thought there weren’t any tags.”
“I knew his face. We were on the plane together. Lieutenant Tully.”
Muller said nothing, just stared, then slowly nodded his head. “Come to my office tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do. Elssholzstrasse.”
“Which is where?”
“Schoneberg. Behind Kleist Park. The drivers will know.”
“The old Supreme Court?”
“That’s right,” Muller said, surprised. “It was the best we could find. Not too much damage. Maybe God has a soft spot for judges. Even Nazi judges.”
Take grinned. “By the way, did anyone ever tell you—”
“I know, Judge Hardy. I suppose it could be worse. I don’t know, I haven’t seen the movies.” He glanced at Jake. “Tomorrow, then. That’s two favors you owe me. Now come and meet some Russians. Sounds like things are revving up.” He motioned toward the front room, where the piano had switched from Cole Porter to a thumping Russian song. “They’re the real story in Berlin, you know. They’ve been running things for two months-it’s their town. And look at it. Remind me to show you another report tomorrow. Infant mortality. Six out of ten babies are going to die here this month. Maybe more. Die. Of course, that’s politics. Scandal sells papers.”
“I’m not looking for any scandal,” Jake said quietly.
“No? You might find some, though,” Muller said, his voice weary again. “I don’t suppose your lieutenant was up to much good. But if you ask me, that’s not the real scandal. Six out often. Not just one soldier. Life’s eheap in Berlin. Try that story. I have all the facts you need for that one.” He stopped, catching himself, and finished off his drink. “Well. Let’s go promote some Allied cooperation.”
“They seem to be doing all right,” Jake said, trying to be light. “It’s turning into a Russian party.”
