together. What did the SD have to say?
Russell recounted his meeting with Kleist, and the demand for previews of each article. He also told Shchepkin about the letter Kleist had written for him, and regretted doing so almost instantly: He wanted the Russian worried for his safety, not encouraged to risk it. And the British want previews, too, he added quickly, hoping to divert his listener with an unwelcome shock.
Shchepkin, though, just laughed. And how are you explaining these trips? he asked.
Russell explained about Germanys Neighbours and Ordinary Germans.
Not bad, Shchepkin said. We will make an intelligence officer of you yet.
No thanks.
Shchepkin gave him one of those looks, amused but disappointed. Are you planning to take sides in the coming war? he asked.
Not if I can help it, was Russells instinctive response. If truth be told, he had no idea.
Have you heard of the poet Yeats? Shchepkin asked out of the blue.
Of course.
Shchepkin grunted. One never knows with the English. So many of you look down on anything Irish.
Yeats is a wonderful poet.
He died yesterday, Shchepkin said.
I didn't know.
You know that poem, The Stolen Child? I always loved that line, a world more full of weeping than you can understand.
Russell said nothing.
Shchepkin shook his head, as if to clear it. Well meet in Posen next month. Or Pozna? as the Poles call it now. And wed like you to talk to armament workers, he said. In Berlin, the Ruhryou know where the big factories are. We need to know if there are problems there, if the workers are ready for political action.
Thatll be difficult, Russell said.
Ordinary German workers, caught between their natural desire for peace and patriotic concern for the Fatherland, Shchepkin suggested. Im sure you can manage it.
Ill try, Russell agreed.
You must, Shchepkin said. And you really should wear a hat.
Idiots to Spare
BERLIN WAS GRAY AND OVERCAST. As his train drew into Friedrichstrasse Station, Russell thought about taking the Stadtbahn another couple of stops and surprising Effi in bed, but decided against it. She was rarely at her best this early in the morning.
Having breakfasted on the train, he skipped coffee in the buffet and headed straight for his bank on Behrenstrasse, where he deposited Shchepkins bankers draft. As he headed for Franzosischestrasse in search of a tram home Russell felt an almost dizzying sense of solvency. Presents for everybody, he thought. Including himself.
The sense of well-being evaporated the moment he saw Frau Heideggers face. Oh Herr Russell, she said, grabbing his left arm with both hands. Thank God youre back. I. . . .
Whats happened?
Herr McKinleyhes dead. He committed suicidecan you believe it? The poor boy. . . . And he seemed so happy these last few weeks. I cant. . . .
How? Russell asked. He felt cold all over, and slightly nauseous. How did he kill himself? He couldn't believe it. He didn't believe it.
Frau Heidegger mopped up a tear. He threw himself in front of a train. At Zoo Station. There were lots of witnesses.
When?
Late on Saturday. The police came just before midnight and locked his room. Then they came back yesterday. They were up there for hours.
The Kripo?
She looked bewildered for a second. Yes, yes, I think so. There were so many of them. They must have been looking for a suicide note, I think. Or something to tell them why he did it.
Or a letter, Russell thought.
But I dont think they found anything, Frau Heidegger went on. They seemed very frustrated when they went. I suppose theyre worried that the Americans wont believe he killed himself.
Perhaps, Russell said. He still felt stunned.
They left the room very tidy, Frau Heidegger said inconsequentially. And they want to talk to you, she added. As soon as he gets back they said. And they put a note under your door saying the same thing. I have the telephone number. She disappeared back into her apartment for a few seconds and re-emerged with what looked like a torn- off page from a police notebook. There was a number and a nameKriminalinspektor Oehm.
Ill ring him now, Russell said.
Yes, please, Frau Heidegger said, as if it would take a huge weight off her mind.
The underling who answered knew who Russell was. The Kriminalinspektor would like to see you immediately, he said, with the stress on the last word. At the Alex. Room 456.
Im on my way, Russell said. It seemed the politic thing to do.
Ill look after your bag, Frau Heidegger said, picking it up and moving toward her door. You can collect it when you get back.
He started walking toward the U-bahn, thinking it would be quicker, but changed his mind once he reached Lindenstrasse. Why was he hurrying? And a tram ride would give him time to think.
He climbed aboard the first Alexanderplatz-bound tram and stared blankly out of the window. If there was one thing he knew, it was that McKinley hadn't killed himself. In fact, he could hardly think of anyone less likely to do so. He supposed it could have been an accidentthe platforms got pretty crowded at Zoo Station after theatre- closing timebut if so, why the rush to a suicide verdict? Frau Heidegger had mentioned witnesseslots of them. An apparent suicide, Russell realized, offered stronger grounds for a police investigation than a simple accident. Theyd spent most of yesterday in McKinleys room, and they must have been looking for something. Theresa Jurissens letter was an obvious candidate, but who knew what other pieces of paper McKinley had collected in support of his story. And it looked as though they hadn't found what they were looking for. Russell wasnt sure how reliable a judge of Kripo moods Frau Heidegger was, but the urgency of his summons certainly suggested they were missing something.
If they hadn't found the letter then where the hell was it? Six days had passed since he and McKinley had visited Theresa Jurissen and McKinley had been in a hurry; it didn't seem likely that hed taken his time sending her the money. Unless, of course, hed had trouble raising it. And she might have had trouble getting down to the poste restante to pick up the money. The letter could still be in the post. Or in her possession. Hed have to warn her, for his own sake as well as hers. If she was arrested, his own involvement would come out, and even if the Kripo accepted that hed only been along as an interpreter, hed still failed to report a possible crime against the state. At the very least, grounds for deportation. At worst. . . . It didn't bear thinking about.
If McKinley had received the letter and they hadn't found it, then what had he done with it? He might have risked posting it off to the States, but Russell didn't think so. If theyd been watching himand it seemed likely that they hadthen any outgoing mail would have been intercepted. Russell remembered McKinleys reluctant admission that he thought he was being followed, and his own scarcely concealed derision. Sorry, Tyler, he murmured out loud, drawing a stare from a woman opposite him.
Of course, McKinleys suspicions would have made him doubly careful. Which meant there was a good chance he had hidden the letter. But where? If he hadn't stashed it in his room, where could he have hidden it? Just about anywhere in Berlin, Russell thought, looking out at the Konigstrasse. McKinley had probably stolen an idea from one of the detective novels he read endlessly.
He got off outside the Alexanderplatz branch of Wertheim and walked under the railway bridge and into the square itself. The station and another department store, Tietz, occupied the northern side, the huge drab mass of
