St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(109)

‘If you speak English, my little Fraulein Helga here said there’s coins on the jukebox and you should pick us a song. We are all a little too stoned to be making any kind of decisions right now, especially musical.’

It was the larger of the two black soldiers speaking and his voice, though deep, had a sort of sleepy, warm rhythm and cadence to it. He was a pretty sharp dresser, Berlin noted, and his dark hair was long for a soldier but cut in a neat sort of helmet shape around his head.

Berlin walked over to the jukebox and studied the list of titles. Most were in German so he picked one that he could read. One of the coins from a small pile went into the slot and he pressed the number and was back in his seat when the music started. He’d picked out ‘Hey Joe’ because it sounded inoffensive but it appeared to be a popular choice. The black man smiled at him and nodded.

‘Jimmy, my man. Right on, brother.’

Berlin’s second cup was half done when car headlights flashed across the front windows. The laughing at the table of four stopped when the two men entered the café. They were wearing the kind of shoes and overcoats that just couldn’t help saying plain-clothes police. One of them crossed over to the jukebox and pulled the plug from the wall. He walked over to the group at the back table and Berlin heard the word Raus. He suddenly shivered as he remembered the camp guards shouting the word when they ordered the POWs outside for an assembly or a headcount in the freezing cold.

The four people at the other table stood up and took their coats from the hooks on the wall. The two soldiers pulled green military hooded winter parkas on over their civilian clothes. The hippie couple wore black-dyed surplus parkas crudely painted with ‘Ban The Bomb’ symbols and slogans in white. It took the stoned girl a bit of effort to get into hers. As they passed the men at the door the black soldier who had spoken to Berlin raised his clenched right fist to shoulder height.

One of the men followed the group outside. After looking around the now empty café the second man walked across to Berlin’s table. He took off his overcoat and a knitted khaki watch cap. Under the cap his hair was cut short, which confirmed police or military. He was wearing a suit and tie and had the build of a boxer. He sat down opposite Berlin and took a packet of Camel cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

‘Smoke?’

Berlin was about to refuse but changed his mind and took the offered cigarette. He leaned across the table to have it lit. The Zippo lighter had a military crest engraved on it. The man lit his own cigarette and looked across the café at the barman and said, ‘Bier.’ He put the lighter on the table next to his cigarettes.

‘Speak English?’ The accent was American, the tone slightly menacing.

Berlin nodded.

The barman put a tall beer glass on the table but the man ignored him. He took a sip of his beer before he spoke again.

‘Tourist? You have papers? You don’t look like you come from around here.’ The tone was more menacing now.

‘I don’t. I’m just here on a short holiday. I’m afraid I left my passport at the hotel. I’m from Australia, actually.’

‘Austria? You sound like a goddamn Limey, actually.’

‘Not Austria, Australia. You know, kangaroos.’ Berlin realised he had very few other ways of describing where he came from. ‘What about you, where’s home?’

The man seemed to be surprised at having been asked the question. He sipped his beer. ‘I’m from Michigan, the Upper Peninsula if you know where that is.’

‘Sorry, never heard of it. But I’m guessing there aren’t too many kangaroos. You in the US army? Military police?’

The other man studied Berlin’s face carefully. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I dunno, your khaki watch cap, the Zippo and the PX cigarettes. And the way your mate ordered those soldiers out of here. I’m a copper back home, a detective inspector. The name is Charlie.’

‘You got your wits about you, buddy, that’s for sure. The name is Karl. Nice to meet you Charlie.’

They shook hands.

‘I’m with the Police Intelligence Section, Provost Marshals Office. We like to keep an eye on visitors and potential troublemakers. Young West Germans can avoid the draft if they decide to live in West Berlin so we get a lot of the anti-war hippy types. This your first time in our beautiful city?’

‘At ground level, yes.’ Berlin wondered how much his earlier visits might have contributed to the beautification of the city. ‘You been here long, Karl?’

‘Long enough. But I’m not complaining, it ain’t South Korea and it sure as hell ain’t the goddamn Nam.’

Berlin stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Nice meeting you, Karl, but I need to find a telephone.’

Karl gestured towards the café counter. ‘You can call from here.’ He said something to the owner in German and the man reached under the counter and pulled out a black telephone.

Berlin dialled the Hilton using a card he had taken from their room with the number. The female receptionist swapped from German to English without missing a beat and read him a message from the Wehrmacht records office. He hung up and put some money on the counter for the call and the coffee. The café owner didn’t offer any change so he must have been happy with the amount.

Karl was finishing off his beer when Berlin walked back to the table and started putting on his coat.