SERGEANT LUDWIG MARSCHACH
Sergeant Ludwig Marschach was often asleep when Willi arrived at work in the morning. And he was often asleep when he left in the evening. Maybe, Willi thought, he’s always here; maybe he lives here. One morning Willi started to tiptoe past as he often did. ‘Geismeier,’ said the sergeant. ‘A word.’ He had the Munich Post in front of him open to the article about Otto Bruck.
‘Yes, Sergeant?’ said Willi.
Marschach rubbed his eyes. ‘Is this you, Geismeier?’ he said, tapping the paper with the back of his hand.
Willi leaned in and looked at the article. ‘Sergeant?’ he said.
‘Is … this … you,’ said the sergeant as though he were talking to a six-year-old.
‘What do you mean, Sergeant?’
Marschach scratched his head with both hands, rubbed his eyes again, cracked his knuckles one by one. He really had just woken up.
‘I mean,’ he said, ‘is the information in this article about Otto Bruck based on research you’ve been doing here in the Evidence Room when you were supposed to be working?’
‘No, Sergeant, it isn’t.’
Sergeant Marschach gazed at Willi with his small red eyes. He rubbed his grizzled chin thoughtfully. ‘OK, Geismeier. If you say so.’ He opened the drawer where his bottle was stored. ‘Drink?’ he said.
‘No, thank you, Sergeant.’
‘OK, Geismeier. Carry on.’
Willi went straight to his research notes, which by now were a thick packet of papers. He kept them in a particularly dusty and inaccessible corner of the Evidence Room no one was ever likely to visit. Each evening before he left, he tucked them away in such a way that he would immediately see the following morning whether they were as he had left them. This morning they were not as he had left them. Someone had taken them out, been through them, and then put them back in a particularly haphazard fashion, almost as though they wanted him to know he had been found out.
‘Sergeant?’ said Willi. ‘A word.’
‘Christ, Geismeier, you scared me. Don’t sneak up on me like that. What is it?’
‘I’m wondering why you asked me about the article in the Post.’ Willi held the bundle of research notes under his arm.
Sergeant Marschach nodded toward the bundle. ‘That’s why,’ he said.
‘I’m surprised you found them. I should have been more careful.’
‘I was once a pretty good detective, Geismeier. I heard all about you after you got here. I heard you were a good detective. And I heard you’d been going after Bruck.’
‘You know Bruck?’
‘Not personally, no.’
‘But you know about him,’ said Willi.
‘Oh, yeah, I know about him.’
‘And what do you know?’
‘Well,’ said the sergeant, nodding again toward the bundle of papers, ‘a good bit more than I did yesterday. You’ve done a lot of excellent research. To think this stuff was all here this whole time. I’m really impressed.’
Willi took a stab in the dark. ‘But you know something I don’t know.’
Sergeant Marschach went silent. After a while he said, ‘Keep up the good work, Geismeier. You’ve given me plenty to think about.’
The next morning Willi found a yellowed newspaper clipping on his desk dated April 19, 1919, describing how a police detective had arrived home one morning after working the night shift to find his wife and infant daughter murdered in their beds. The woman, Ingeborg Marschach, had been raped before being stabbed multiple times with a kitchen knife. There was one suspect, but he had an alibi, and the case went cold.
Willi found the case file. The suspect, unnamed in the newspaper clipping, was Hans Dieter Gensler.
THE TEA KETTLE
Hans Bergemann thought long and hard about what to do with the file Willi had had his messenger tuck under his arm. He knew that anything he might try to do with the Bruck information would mean the end of his career, and surely Willi Geismeier had known that when he sent it. Bergemann also knew the file was almost certainly on its way to the Post, if it wasn’t there already. So why had Willi sent it to him at all? Was it an admonition? Was it a trap? Was it a test of some sort? He opened the wood stove and fed the pages in one by one. He made sure the flames took them all and turned them to ash before he closed the door.
Bergemann watched the Post and, when the article came out, he brought the paper to Gruber. ‘I thought you should see this, Sergeant.’ A short time later Sergeant Gruber made several phone calls and then left the office with the paper under his arm. Bergemann then left the office himself. He walked a dozen blocks to a telephone booth. He dropped a coin in and dialed a number. A woman answered. She sounded like the woman he had seen at Willi’s apartment. He asked to speak to Willi Geismeier.
‘There’s no one here by that name,’ she said. But she didn’t hang up.
‘Tell him, please, that I called.’ Bergemann hoped she would remember him. Still she didn’t hang up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, ‘but there’s no one here by that name.’
‘Tell him that Gruber has taken the Post article to Reineke, and maybe further up the line. They know Willi’s behind it. Tell him Gruber is connected to Tannenwald, the chief. And so is Bruck.’ Bergemann had discovered this connection after Willi had been transferred to the Evidence Room, and he didn’t know whether Willi knew it or not.
‘You must have the wrong number,’ she said. She still did not hang up.
‘Tell him they’re going to arrest him.’
There was silence at the other end of the line.
‘OK. Good luck,’ said Bergemann, and hung up the phone.
Gruber, looking out for himself as he always did, insisted the arrest be properly done. Geismeier had to be charged with a crime by the Bavarian State Prosecutor, then a warrant had to be issued by an investigating judge. Willi Geismeier was to be arrested at his home, Apartment 3-B, Penzigauerstraße 26.
Shortly after four o’clock on the morning of September 20 a squad of six men, two SS officers and four Munich city constables who were also in the SA, arrived at the building. It was a crystal-clear night, there was no moon, there was no wind, the air was frosty. The six men crept up the three flights of stairs.
Once they were in front of 3-B, the SS lieutenant in charge knocked hard on the door. They waited. There was no response. He knocked again, even harder and longer. They waited. The lieutenant nodded to one of the constables, who kicked the door once, then again. It flew open. The men rushed inside, reached for the light switch, then stopped in their tracks.
Not only was no one there, there was nothing there. There was no furniture, there were no carpets on the floor, no pictures on the wall, not even curtains or window shades. The other two rooms were just as empty, except for the small kitchen, which held what looked to be a brand-new gas stove, all shiny white enamel and steel. On one of the eyes of the stove sat a cast-iron tea kettle. After studying it from every side to make sure it wasn’t booby trapped, the SS lieutenant in charge gingerly removed the lid. The other men took a step backwards. The lieutenant laid the lid aside, and picked up the kettle itself, turning it around, turning it upside down while the other men stood and watched.
‘What the hell is this?’ said the SS lieutenant.
‘A tea kettle, sir,’ said one of constables.
THE MUNICH POST
Aaron Appelbaum had closed all his galleries, finally even Munich, but had continued to buy and sell art out of his apartment. He had found a few buyers for Maximilian’s drawings and paintings. And for a year now he had been shipping art to the United States. He had also been transferring money to a Swiss bank account. It was not a large amount, but it would be enough to get him started on a new life. His wife was dead, his only son was in Palestine. ‘Come to Tel Aviv, Papa. It is the new frontier,’ he wrote.
‘I’m too old for the new frontier, Moishe,’ Aaron responded. He left for the United States on Jan
uary 30, 1933, the day Hitler was named Chancellor.
Maximilian went with him to the train to see him off. The station was busier than usual and there were SS men everywhere. Aaron walked with a cane now. A large steamer trunk had been shipped ahead. Maximilian carried his small suitcase. The train for Cologne and Rotterdam was announced. Aaron and Maximilian embraced. ‘My dear boy,’ said Aaron. ‘If the moment comes when you want to or have to leave, bring your little family to New York. It is a great city. You’ll be safe there, and you can have a normal life.’ A normal life. What would that even be?
On March 9, 1933, unmarked trucks roared up to the offices of the Munich Post and stopped with a great screeching of brakes. One truck with a machine gun in back positioned itself at the entrance to the building. Armed SS men spilled out of the trucks and ran inside. They hurried past the receptionist and the secretaries, fanning out through the building. Within minutes they had arrested the editors and many of the editorial staff. They marched them out of the building with their hands held above their heads. They searched the business offices, gathering all the files in one place. Before the end of the day the files were removed and burned. All non-editorial employees – secretaries, couriers, maintenance people, typesetters, pressmen – had their personal information recorded. Then they were allowed to leave.
The empty building was padlocked and guarded by the SS. In the following days trucks arrived. Crews removed the presses and other equipment to a great smelting foundry on the edge of the city where it was all destroyed. Adolf Hitler wanted the destruction of the Munich Post to be so complete that no one would ever think of it again. He even ordered the house number removed from the building and from the map and forbade its ever being used again.
The editorial staff were charged with sedition, treason, and anything else Hitler could think of. They were quickly tried and convicted. Some were summarily executed. Others were sent to prisons and concentration camps, like Dachau, which had recently opened.
Sophie was about to take Maria Christine to her kindergarten when she received a telephone call. A man’s voice, one she didn’t recognize, told her that an SS raid on the Post’s offices was about to begin.
‘Who is this?’ she said, but the man hung up. She tried to call the Post. All the numbers were busy. She was already late getting Maria Christine to her kindergarten, which was only a few blocks from the paper. After dropping the child off and walking a block, Sophie sensed something was wrong. There were SS men stationed on street corners. She went back to the kindergarten, got Maria Christine, and took her home. She called the paper again. This time the phone rang, but nobody picked up.
Willi Geismeier had given her a phone number to call in case of an emergency. She called it. ‘Evidence and records,’ said a man’s voice. She thought it sounded like the voice that had called her at home to warn her. But then she thought she must be imagining things. Willi had told her to use only first names. ‘I’d like to speak to Willi,’ she said, ‘this is Sophie.’
‘Sophie,’ said the man. ‘Where are you?’
She hesitated.
‘If you’re at home, get out of there,’ he said. ‘The Post has been raided by the SS. Maximilian is waiting for you at his parents’ house.’
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘I’m nobody,’ he said, and she could have sworn he was weeping.
FOR INGEBORG
‘You have a call, Herr Hauptmann.’ Otto Bruck was a member of the Reichstag now and could use the title Herr Abgeordneter, Mr Deputy. But he had recently joined the SS as a captain, and captain was the title he preferred. He favored the black uniform now too. His peaked cap sat perched on the corner of the desk, where he could see the silver eagle holding the swastika and below it the death’s head.
Otto had spent most of the last week in Munich, making the rounds to various high officials, wrapping up local business before moving to Berlin. He had a new staff in woeful need of training and discipline. There were lots of ribbon cuttings and other official celebrations to be attended to. Then when you added in all government and Party business, well, it was clear why interruptions were unwelcome.
‘I told you no calls,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, Herr Hauptmann, but this is one I think you’ll want to take.’
‘Who is it?’ He glared at the young assistant, tapping his pen on the desk impatiently. ‘What’s so important?’
‘It’s the desk sergeant at the Police Records Department, sir. He says he has something very important.’
‘The desk sergeant? Really? My God, isn’t this something you know how to deal with?’
‘No, sir. I don’t think so. The sergeant said it was a matter having to do with your police record. I don’t know what he …’
Otto picked up the phone. ‘Yes? Who is this?’ He waved the assistant out of the office.
‘This is Sergeant Marschach, Herr Hauptmann. Central Records. I have something here, sir, that belongs to you.’
‘Go on.’
‘A policeman named Geismeier.’
Hearing the name caused Otto to sit up straighter.
‘Constable Geismeier has, as you must know, been busy with your, shall we say, history. He was working here in Records in the Evidence Room until he disappeared …’
‘He was arrested, wasn’t he?’
‘Well, he was supposed to be, sir, but he seems to have flown the coop. Anyway, he was posted here in Records in the Evidence Room for the last, oh, I don’t know how long …’
‘Get to the point, Sergeant!’
‘Yes, sir. Geismeier was a lousy traitor, Herr Hauptmann, up to no good. He was placed in charge of evidence, and he used his time and the police files at his disposal – and I had no idea what he was up to – to put together a record, quite a record of your past … activities. I don’t want to say any more over the phone, Herr Hauptmann, but I think you probably know what I’m talking about. So far, the information is contained here in the Records Department.’ Otto drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. ‘I wanted to alert you, Herr Hauptmann, to Geismeier’s treachery. There’s a stack of material here I’m sure you wouldn’t want to get into the wrong hands …’
‘God damn it, Sergeant, what the hell are you saying? Are you trying to blackmail me?’
‘What? No. No, sir!’ said Marschach. ‘No. Good God, no. I know you’re in the Führer’s circle, sir. This is information that could harm you, sir, and the Führer. You should have this information. There are plenty of people that would like to do the new government harm.’
Otto was suddenly aware that this was not the kind of conversation he wanted to have over the telephone. He didn’t quite believe the records sergeant was quite the harmless character he was pretending to be. ‘You did the right thing by calling, Sergeant. I will come right over to Records. It’s downstairs in Ettstraße, is that right? Is anyone else there in Records with you?’
‘No, sir, Herr Hauptmann. Not since Geismeier left. I’m running the whole show. I could use some help, sir. It’s too much for one man. If …’
‘Yes, yes, Sergeant. I understand. But as far as this matter goes, it’s just between us. No one else there. You give me what you’ve got. I’ll decide how to deal with it.’
‘Deal with it? Of course, sir. I’m here until seven this evening.’
‘No one else there, Sergeant. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir, Herr Hauptmann.’
At 6:30 Otto pushed the buzzer to call an assistant. He ordered a car and a contingent of four SS men. He put on his overcoat. He took his holster from the coat rack and strapped it on. He wore his pistol on the left because of his hand.
Otto didn’t think the sergeant was up to any tricks, but you couldn’t be too careful. And depending on how much of a look he had had into Geismeier’s files, well, he would have to be dealt with somehow too.
And Geismeier was a cunning character. What if he was there? Otto had to be prepared for anything. The police guards ush
ered Otto and his SS men into the headquarters building and pointed the way to the Records Department.
‘You wait here,’ said Otto to his SS contingent, as they reached the stairs. The fewer people that saw or heard what went on, the better.
Sergeant Ludwig Marschach was asleep at his desk. He was snoring. Otto Bruck rattled the fence that surrounded the Records Department and came through the gate. ‘Sergeant!’ he shouted. ‘This is outrageous.’
Marschach snorted and blinked his eyes. He peered at Otto through tiny red eyes, as though he were trying to recognize him.
‘SS Captain Otto Bruck, Sergeant!’ said Bruck angrily.
‘What? Oh, yes sir, Herr Hauptmann,’ said Marschach. He struggled to sit up straight but made no effort to stand.
‘I don’t have a lot of time, Sergeant,’ said Bruck. ‘What is it you have for me?’
‘Well, as I said on the phone, Herr Bruck …’
‘Captain, Goddamnit!’ said Bruck. ‘Really, Sergeant. I’ll see that you’re written up for this.’
‘Yes, sir, Herr Bruck.’
Bruck leaned toward the sergeant. ‘Have you been drinking, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir, I have.’
Bruck straightened to his full height. ‘Are you drunk, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir, I am.’
‘What is the meaning of this, Sergeant?’
‘The meaning, sir? It has no meaning.’
‘Drinking on the job, is …’
‘It’s how I get through the day, Herr Captain. We all have our own way of getting through the day, don’t we?’
‘Let’s get this over with, shall we? Where are the files, the Geismeier files …’
‘How do you get through the day, Herr Captain Otto Bruck?’
‘I’ll take those records, Sergeant. Right now.’
‘Wouldn’t you like a drink, sir?’
Marschach could see Bruck was losing all patience. ‘All right, all right, Herr Captain.’ He opened the middle drawer of the desk, pulled out a large pistol, and shot Otto Bruck right between the eyes. The sound reverberated through the building. The following silence was profound. Then came the sound of boots clattering down the stairs. The SS men and the police guards arrived to find Otto Bruck lying on his back jammed against the fence, his dead eyes wide open, his mouth too. A dark pool of blood was spreading rapidly across the concrete floor, so that the SS men had to jump out of the way to avoid getting it on their boots.
The Good Cop Page 18