“That’s the ten o’clock meeting. General Clay wants to limit the amount a man can send home to his actual pay. It’ll be a headache for the APO, just keeping track, and it won’t solve everything, but at least it’ll stop the worst of the bleeding. Of course they can still send goods home, but the money will stay here, where it belongs. Ultimately, the only thing that’s going to work is a new currency, but don’t hold your breath. How fast do you think the Russians would agree to that?”
“I mean, what are you doing on the ground? How do you police it?”
“Well, it’s a problem. MP raids the worst spots from time to time, but that’s just a little finger in the dike. Berlin’s an open city-people go where they want-but it’s just administered in zones. So we can’t patrol Zoo Station, that’s the Brits. Alexanderplatz is in the Russian zone.“
“Like Potsdam.” ‹›Muller looked up at him. “Like Potsdam. There’s nothing we can do there.“ ‹›“What about off the street? This much money-somebody must be running things.“
“You mean gangs? Professionals? That I don’t know. And I’d doubt it. You hear rumors about the DPs, but people like to blame the DPs for everything. Nobody polices them. The kind of thing you’re talking about, you’d have to go back to Bavaria or Frankfurt, where there’s still something to steal. Warehouses. Big hoardings. It happens, and I suppose Frankfurt must have somebody on it, if you’re interested. But Berlin? It’s been picked pretty clean. What you’ve got here is a lot of small money that adds up.”
“That’s a fair description of the numbers racket too.” A reluctant smile. “I guess.” Muller paused, spreading his hands on the desk. “Look. A soldier sells a watch. Maybe he shouldn’t, and maybe you don’t think we’re doing enough to stop him. But I’ll tell you this-I’ve seen lots of men die in the last few years. Ripped up, holding their guts in. Good men. Kids. Nobody thought they were criminals then. Now they’re picking up a few bucks. Maybe it’s wrong, but you know what? I’m still a soldier. I think they’re worth two million a month.” ‹›“So do I,” Jake said slowly. “I just don’t like to see them get shot. It doesn’t seem right. For a watch.” Muller looked at him, disconcerted, then lowered his head. “No. Well. Is there anything else?”
“Lots, but you’ve got a meeting to get to,” Jake said, standing up. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
“Any time,” Muller said pleasantly, also getting up, relieved. “That’s what we’re here for.”
“No, you’re not. I appreciate the time.” Jake folded the flimsies into his pocket. “And these. Oh, one more thing. Can I see the body?” “The body?” Muller said, literally taking a step back in surprise. “I thought you had seen it. Isn’t that why we’re here? It’s-gone. It was shipped back to Frankfurt.” “That was fast. No autopsy?”
“No,” Muller said, slightly puzzled. “Why would there be an autopsy? We know how he died. Should there have been one?”
Jake shrugged. “At least a coroner’s report.” He caught Muller’s expression. “I know. You’re not Scotland Yard. It’s just a little skimpy, that’s all,” he said, patting the sheets in his pocket. “It might have helped to examine it. I wish you’d waited.”
Muller looked at him, then sighed. “You know what I wish, Geismar? I wish you’d never gone to Potsdam.”
Jeanie was arranging her set of carbons when he came out. She looked up and smiled without stopping, like a casino dealer, shuffling the third sheet to the bottom, then tossing the folder into an out box for filing. “All set?”
Jake smiled back. The army never changed, a world run in duplicate. He wondered if there was another girl to do the filing to save those wonderful nails. “For now,” he said, still smiling, but she took it as a pass, arching her eyebrows and shooting him a look.
“We’re here nine to five,” she said, a dismissal.
“That’s good to know,” he said, playing along. “Colonel keep you pretty busy? ”
“All the live-long day. Stairs are down the hall to your right.”
“Thanks,” he said, lifting his fingers to his forehead in a salute.
On the entrance steps he was blinded by the light and shaded his eyes to get his bearing. The sun, already hot, was streaming in from the east, filtering through the dust that hung over the ruins beyond the graceful colonnades. The work party, bent over their rakes, had got rid of their shirts but not, Jake noticed, their initials, P on one trouser leg, W on the other. The war had branded everybody, even Tully, now just some initials on a carbon flimsy.
