Zoo Station

annihilation. At least he hoped he wasnt. He remembered Alberts words in the Friedrichshain park: Theyll just kill us. . . . Whos going to stop them?

Frau Heidegger had listened to the speech and found only grounds for optimism. Therell be an agreement with the Poles, she said. Like the one with the Czechs at Munich. And then therell be nothing more to fight over.

Russell said he hoped she was right.

The police were back yesterday, she went on. Herr McKinleys sister will be here on Wednesday or Thursday to collect his things.

I know, Russell told her. They want me to interpret for them.

Thats nice, Frau Heidegger said.

Once upstairs, Russell bathed, changed, and worked for a couple of hours planning his transport piece for Pravda. Autobahns and the peoples car, streamlined trains and new U-bahn lines, the latest Dornier flying boats. Perhaps a hint of regret for the passing of the Zeppelins, he thought, but absolutely no mention of the Hindenburg.

He fried up a potato omelette for lunch, found a dusty bottle of beer to accompany it, and reluctantly considered the prospect of interviewing Hitlers armament workers for Stalin. It could be done, he supposed, but hed have to be damn careful. Start off by talking to the Party people in the factory, the managers and Labor Front officials. Only move out onto the metaphorical lake if the ice feels really solid. Dont do a McKinley.

He thought about the missing letter. If he was going to take a look around the Americans room it had to be today.

He walked down to the ground floor, and tapped on Frau Heideggers open door. Have you still got a spare key for Tylers room? he asked. I loaned him some books, and it would be awkward searching for them when his sisters here, so I thought I could slip in and get them today. You dont need to come up, he added quickly, hoping that Frau Heideggers bad knees would triumph over her curiosity.

They did. Make sure you bring it back, she told him.

McKinleys room was still suffused with the faint odor of his Balkan tobacco. As Frau Heidegger had intimated, the room was almost preternaturally tidy, and now he knew why the Kripo had refrained from leaving their usual mess. A senators nephew! No wonder they were on their best behavior.

The clothes were neatly put away: shirts, jacket and suit in the wardrobe, socks and underwear in drawers. There was a small pile of papers on the deskleft for show, Russell guessed. He remembered two great towers of paper on his last visit. The desk, too, had been mostly emptied. One drawer contained a single eraser, another, three pencils. It was as if the Kripo had decided to spread things out.

There was no obvious reduction in the number of books, but the lines on the shelves seemed anything but neat. Each had been taken out and checked for insertions, Russell assumed. Well, at least that meant he didn't have to.

The same applied to the floorboards. The Kripo werent amateurs. Far from it.

He sat on McKinleys bed, wondering why hed imagined he could find something which they couldn't. The shelf above the headboard was full of crime novels, all in English. More than fifty, Russell guessed: Dashiell Hammett, Edgar Wallace, Dorothy L. Sayers, several authors he hadn't heard of. There were around a dozen Agatha Christies, and a similar number of Saint books. Russells earlier notion that McKinley had stolen an idea from one of these stories still seemed a good one, but the only way of finding out for certain was to go through them all, and that would take forever.

And what would he do with the letter if he found it? He had no proof of its authenticity, and without such proof there was little chance of anonymously arranging its publication outside Germany. He would have to guarantee it with what was left of his own reputation, either risking arrest by doing so inside Germany or forfeiting his residence by doing so from the safety of England. Neither course appealed to him. And their secret will stay secret, he murmured to himself. He took one last look around the room and took the key back to Frau Heidegger.

EARLY THAT EVENING HE telephoned Paul. The conversation seemed unusually awkward at first. His son seemed happy to talk, but there was something in his voice which worried Russell, some faint edge of resentment that was quite possibly unconscious. His Jungvolk group had spent much of Saturday making model gliders out of balsa wood and glue, something which Paul had obviously enjoyed, and on the coming Saturday they were visiting an airfield to examine the real thing. At school a new music teacher had given them a talk on the different types of music, and how some of themjazz for examplewere fatally tainted by their racial origins. He had even played several pieces on the school gramophone, pointing out what he called animal rhythms. I suppose hes right, Paul said. I mean, jazz was invented by negroes, wasnt it? But most of my friends thought the records he played were really good, he admitted.

Russell searched in vain for an adequate response.

What are you doing? Paul asked, somewhat unusually.

This and that, Russell said. Paul was probably too old to have nightmares about falling under trains, but it wasnt worth the risk. Actually Im looking for something that someone hid, he said. If the Saint wants to hide something, how does he do it? he asked, not really expecting an answer.

What sort of thing?

Oh, money, a letter. . . .

Thats easy. He sends it to himself. At awhat do you call it?

Poste restante.

Thats it. He sends diamonds to himself in Getaway and The High Fence. And he does it in another story, I think. I cant remember which, though. . . .

Russell was no longer listening. Of course. If McKinley had forgotten the Saints trick, then Theresas use of the poste restante would have reminded him. His heart sank. There was no way of collecting anything from a poste restante without identification. McKinleys sister could probably get access, but only by asking permission from the police.

Dad, are you listening?

Yes, sorryI think youve solved it for me.

Oh.

And Im reading the book you loaned me, he added, eager to please his son.

Isnt it great?

Its pretty good, Russell agreed, though hed only read thirty pages. I havent got far, he admitted, hoping to ward off a cross-examination. Ill talk to you about it on Saturday.

Okay. On Sunday are we getting the train from Anhalter Bahnhof?

I expect so. Ill let you know. Actually, a different means of transport was suggesting itself.

THE FIRST DAY OF FEBRUARY was as gray as nature intended. His Wednesday morning lesson with Ruth and Marthe was enjoyable as ever, but there was no sign of their brother or parents. Arriving back at Alexanderplatz with twenty minutes to spare he stopped for a coffee in Wertheim and ran into Doug Conway. They chatted for a few minutes, until Russell realized he was late for his appointment. The search for Oehms office made him even later, and McKinleys sister was looking none-too-happy when he finally arrived.

We were talking about Fraulein McKinleys flying boat, Oehm said, which further explained her look of irritation.

She was almost as tall as her brotherabout five-foot-eleven, he guessedand even thinner. Severely cut brunette hair framed a face that might have been pretty if the already-thin lips had not been half-pursed in disapproval, but Russell sensed that her current expression was the one she most usually presented to the world. She was wearing a cream blouse and smart, deep blue suit. There was no hint of black and no obvious sign of grief in her face. He told himself that shed had several days to take it all in.

He introduced himself and offered his condolences.

Eleanor McKinley, she responded. Tyler never mentioned you.