Free Berlin Burning by Damien Seaman Page A

giggled – actually giggled – and slapped Fleischer’s knee.
    Trautmann rooted through his pockets and finally found his pipe. But when he brought it out, only the bowl came. The stem had snapped off at some point.
    â€˜Here,’ Fleischer said, leaning over to offer his cigarette case. ‘Have one of these. Christ knows you need it.’
    Trautmann lit up, drawing the smoke deep and suppressing a choke when he let it go. It was strong stuff and caught in his throat. His head swam – or more than it already had been.
    Roth.
    All he could think of right then was Roth. Yet another young victim of this torturous case.
    If the boy died, he’d be to blame.
    Frankly, if he didn’t die Trautmann would still be to blame. Even more of a cripple than before – what kind of a life was that?
    â€˜Don’t suppose there’s any coffee?’ Fleischer asked the nurse. ‘Be a dear and fetch some for us, won’t you?’
    â€˜This isn’t a hotel,’ the nurse replied. ‘Besides, I haven’t finished on your arm yet.’
    â€˜Oh don’t you worry about that. We’re not going anywhere, are we? So what do you say? I promise I’ll be good.’
    He winked and the nurse got to her feet with a flourish, wiggling her rear end. She gave Trautmann a sour look, then threw a girlish smile at Fleischer. She left their cubicle with a swish of the surrounding curtain. Fleischer bit off the end of the thread in his arm.
    Trautmann dropped what was left of his cigarette and ground it out.
    â€˜Fleischer? Where are you going?’ he whispered.
    â€˜No answer from the big man, who crept to the curtain and peeked out.
    â€˜Fleischer?’
    Fleischer shushed him and left.
    Trautmann jumped to his feet. The movement stung his burned skin, but this was no time to capitulate to his aching body. He followed Fleischer out of the cubicle, caught him turning the corner at the end of the hall.
    â€˜Fleischer!’
    He slipped on the waxed floor as he went round the same corner, ducking a swipe from the Fleischer’s fist. The gangster had been waiting there for him with evil intent.
    The two men looked at each other, Trautmann flat on his arse, back against the wall, Fleischer looming over him; both panting from the brief chase.
    â€˜Take me with you and I’ll prove she didn’t kill him,’ Trautmann said.
    Fleischer seemed to think it over. ‘No good.’
    â€˜For God’s sake man, listen to me. She didn’t kill him and I can make sure she believes that. You don’t have to go through all this!’
    â€˜Kessler’s coming after me no matter what. You said yourself if he can’t get me he’ll get her. So what difference can it make, now?’
    The two of them were whispering, trying not to draw attention from the hospital staff at the other end of the hall.
    â€˜Stop thinking about yourself for a minute and think about her instead.’
    â€˜You think I’m not?’
    â€˜Shut up, you moron. She’s alone out there. Scared, confused.’ Trautmann let all his guilt flood through him and come out as anger. At the situation, at the fact Roth could die at any moment – hell, could already be dead, as far as he knew – at strongmen like Fleischer who belonged in the circus ring lifting dumbbells instead of lording it over the helpless in places like the Scheunenviertel.
    â€˜She’s in agony, thinking she killed her sweetheart.’
    Fleischer rolled his eyes.
    â€˜Reckon she’ll believe you if you tell her she didn’t do it?’ Trautmann snapped. ‘She’ll think you’re lying to make her feel better. I can put her mind at ease. I can help her get over the death of her lover.’
    â€˜Lover,’ Fleischer snorted. ‘The man didn’t know what love was. Treated her like an animal.’
    So, Fleischer had heard the stories about Meist – sorry, Rudi von Gaben