'Yes?'
'Sorry to interrupt, but I was told that you had Uwe Kuzorra's home address.'
'Yes. I do. Come in. Sit down. It may take me a while to find it.'
The room gave off a rich melange of odours – wood polish and metallic oil from the workbench, soapy steam from the laundry below, the unmistakable scent of male cat. The beast in question, a huge black tom, stared blearily back at him from his patch in the sun.
The horologist was shuffling through a pile of papers – mostly unpaid bills, if the frequent mutters of alarm and dismay were anything to go by. 'Ah, here it is,' he said at last, waving a scrap of paper at Russell. '14 Demminer Strasse, Apartment 6. Do you have a pencil?'
Russell recognized the street. He had interviewed a dog breeder there several years earlier – some dreadful piece for an American magazine on the Germans and their pets. The breeder had claimed that Mein Kampf inspired him in his search for pedigree perfection.
It was only a five minute drive. The apartment building was old, but seemed well cared for. A grey-haired woman opened the door – in her early 60s, Russell guessed, but still attractive. He asked if Uwe Kuzorra lived there.
'Who are you?' she asked simply.
'I interviewed him once several years ago. I'm a journalist, but that's not why I'm here…'
'You'd better come in. My husband is in the other room.'
Kuzorra was reclining in an armchair close to the open window, legs stretched out, eyes closed. A People's Radio was playing softly on the chest of drawers – Schubert, Russell guessed, but he was usually wrong. 'Uwe,' the woman said behind him, 'a visitor.'
Kuzorra opened his eyes. 'John Russell,' he said after a moment's thought. 'Still here, eh?'
'I'm surprised you remembered.'
'I was always good at names and faces. Are you chasing another story? Please sit down. Katrin will make us some coffee.'
'You've had your two coffees,' she said sternly.
'I can't let Herr Russell drink alone.'
She laughed. 'Oh, all right.'
'So what brings you to me? How did you find me? Surely that lunatic clock-maker has long since lost my address.'
'You underestimate him.'
'Perhaps. He has been mending the same dozen clocks ever since I met him. Still…'
'I need a private detective,' Russell said, 'and I thought you might be able to recommend one. It's a missing persons case – a Jewish girl. Not the sort of case that'll make anyone famous…'
'The sort of case that'll lose an investigator any police friends he still has,' Kuzorra said. 'And they're the ones you need in this job.'
'Exactly. I imagine a lot of your ex-colleagues would turn it down.'
'You're right about that. Can you give me some details?'
Russell went through what Thomas had told him, pausing only to accept an extremely good cup of coffee from Kuzorra's wife.
'Well, let's hope she hasn't run into another George Grossman,' was the detective's initial response.
'Who?'
'Before your time, I suppose. You remember the German cannibals of the 20s? There were four of them – Fritz Haarmann, Karl Denke, Peter Kurten and George Grossman.' He almost danced through the names. 'Grossmann was the Berliner. He rented a flat near the Silesian Station, just before the war. He used to meet the trains from the East, seek out innocent-looking country girls – he preferred them plump – and ask if they needed help. He told some of them that he was looking for a housekeeper, but most of the time he just offered the girls cheap lodgings while they found their feet in the big city. Once he got them back to his flat he killed them, cut them up, and ground them into sausages for the local market. He was at it for about eight years before we caught him.'
'He hasn't been released recently?'
'He hanged himself in prison.'
'That's a relief.'
'I doubt your girl has been eaten. But the first thing to do is find out if she ever reached Berlin. I've got some friends at Silesian Station – I can ask around. What day did she arrive?'
'The last day of June, whatever that was.'
'A Friday,' Frau Kuzorra said. 'I had a doctor's appointment that day. But Uwe…'
'I know, I know. I'm retired. I also get a little bored from time to time. Asking a few questions at Silesian Station is hardly going to kill me, is it? And we could do with a little extra money. That week on the coast you've been talking about.' He took her silence for acquiescence. 'My usual rates are twenty-five Reichsmarks an hour and reasonable expenses,' he told Russell.
'Fine.' Thomas could certainly afford it.
'Right then. If I go down on Friday evening there's a good chance the same crew will be working that train. Have you a picture of her?'
Russell passed it over.
'Lovely,' Kuzorra said. 'But very Jewish. Let's hope she didn't reach Berlin.' He got to his feet, wincing as he did so. 'They say old war wounds are more painful in wet weather,' he said, 'but mine always seem worst in summer. You fought in the war, didn't you?'
'In Belgium,' Russell admitted. 'The last eighteen months.'
'Well, who would have guessed we'd find a leader stupid enough to start another one?' the detective asked.
'He hasn't started one yet.'
'He will.' Russell drove slowly back into the city along Brunner-Strasse and Rosenthaler Strasse. The area around the latter had once hosted a large Jewish population, and reminders of Kristallnacht were still occasionally evident – shops abandoned and boarded up, a few with crudely daubed Stars of David on their doors. He hadn't told Thomas or Kuzorra, but he already had one missing girl to find in Berlin. In New York his mother had introduced him to the Hahnemann family, rich Berliners from Charlottenburg who had decided they could no longer abide life in Hitler's Germany. They had brought three of the children with them, but their oldest daughter Freya had refused to leave her Jewish boyfriend, a man named Wilhelm Isendahl, and had remained in Berlin. The Hahnemanns hadn't heard from her in months, their own letters had been returned unopened, and they couldn't help worrying that her 'firebrand' of a boyfriend had led her into trouble. Could Russell make sure she was all right, and ask her to send them a postcard? Of course he could.
Finding her might take time – there was certainly no chance of official help if a Jew was involved – but he had no reason to believe that Freya Hahnemann was in any immediate danger. And he wanted Kuzorra to concentrate on Miriam Rosenfeld, who probably was. Her face in the photograph had an air of almost catastrophic innocence.
After recrossing the river Russell found himself heading back to the Adlon. He rang Thomas from the lobby to tell him he'd hired Kuzorra, and what the retainer was. Thomas took a note of the detective's address and promised to send off a cheque.
Slaney was gone from the bar, but several members of the British press corps had filled the gap. Russell bought a round and listened to the latest news from London, most of which seemed singularly uninteresting. One item, however, grabbed his attention. According to Dick Thornton, the British and French governments had both received virtual ultimatums from Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov. If they didn't get serious about a military alliance, then the Soviets would look elsewhere.
'They won't do a deal with Hitler, will they?' the Chronicle man asked.
'Why not? It would give them some time. Stalin has just killed half his generals.'
'I know, but…'