Tanz grabbed him by the hair and held him. “I knew you were trouble that first day in the plaza.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You mean arrest you?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Tanz. He let go of Largo’s hair and pointed over his shoulder. “He is.”
One of the uniformed officers dragged Largo from the chair and threw him against the wall. While another officer held Largo’s arms behind his back, he snapped heavy cuffs on Largo’s wrists. They walked him into the hall and shoved and kicked him down all three flights of stairs to a waiting police van outside. Largo’s neighbors watched silently as he was led away.
Largo stopped in the doorway of the police station. The interior was lit with yellow coal light, giving the grim surroundings the feel of a quarantine ward at the hospital. Tanz shoved him through a small gate and into a chair near a bored officer with a stack of old forms and a typewriter on his desk.
Tanz took off the handcuffs and slapped Largo on the back of the head. His stomach churned and he thought for a moment that he was going to vomit. Tanz said, “Give this gentleman your finest accommodations,” and left without another word.
The officer at the desk looked at Largo and drew a breath. He wearily rolled a form into the typewriter and typed in the date. In the piss-colored light Largo thought he looked like he was made of old wax.
“Name?”
“Largo Moorden.”
“Address?”
Largo gave it to him.
“Charges against you?”
“I don’t know.”
The officer drew in another breath. “They didn’t tell you the charges?”
“I’m afraid not.”
The officer snatched the form from the typewriter, wadded it up, and threw it in an overflowing wastebasket. “Don’t lie to me. You’ll make it worse for yourself.”
“I’m not lying,” insisted Largo. “Tanz never told me any charges.”
The officer looked at him in disgust. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Largo got up and the officer led him down a long corridor to a room that looked less like the police station and more like one of the small, shabby business offices he sometimes visited on his rounds. The officer shoved him toward a desk and said, “He’s yours now.”
The woman behind the desk didn’t look at Largo as she slowly removed some paper and a fountain pen from a drawer. The yellow overhead light flickered and made his head worse than before.
The woman filled in something on the form. “Name?” she said.
“Largo Moorden.”
“Address?”
He told her.
“Charges against you?”
“As I told the other officer, I don’t know exactly.”
She set down her pen. “I see. I was wondering why you were here with no paperwork.” She put on a leather glove that was neatly laid out on her desk and slapped Largo hard enough that he almost fell out of his chair.
“Now, let’s begin again,” she said. “Name?”
It took Largo a moment before he could speak. “I already told you.”
This time she punched him. There was shot or something else heavy in the knuckles of the glove. The blow knocked him to the very edge of his chair.
What is happening to me? Since last night, nothing makes sense.
“Name?” she said.
“Largo Moorden.”
“Address?”
He repeated the information.
“Charges against you?”
“I don’t know,” he said and steadied himself for another blow. He felt weak and empty, from both fear and lack of morphia.
The woman threw down her pen. “You’re not very cooperative, are you? You don’t know your charges? Everyone here knows their charges. But let’s try this approach: what do you know?”
Largo thought about it. “Nothing.”
The woman rose from her chair. From the look on her face, he thought she was going to hit him again. Instead, she walked to the office door and gestured for Largo to follow. “Come with me.”
She took him farther down the corridor to an even smaller office. There was only one desk and a long wooden bench. “Sit there,” she said, and added, “Don’t get blood on the floor. If you do, I swear you’ll be licking it up.”
Largo touched the side of his face and his hand came back speckled with red. He went to the bench and the woman stood by the door. “You should have talked to me. The downstairs staff aren’t as for giving.”
Feeling like a fool, Largo said, “I’m sorry.”
The woman gave him one more angry glance and slammed the door. Largo heard her lock it from the other side.
This is Tanz’s doing, he thought. He’s paying me back for the Baron telling him off.
Metal blinds covered the room’s single window. Gray light filtered through and hurt his eyes. In fact, he hurt all over. Largo’s insides felt like ice and his hands shook. He doubled over on the bench as his stomach cramped. Blood fell onto the bench, but he didn’t care. Curled in a small ball of pain, he fell into a deep, frigid sleep.
The next thing Largo was aware of was someone shaking him roughly. His eyes snapped open. It was dark beyond the metal shutters. How long have I been here? He looked at the man still shaking him.
The man pointed at him with a clipboard. “Who the hell are you?”
“Largo Moorden.”
“How did you get in here? The door was locked.”
“The woman locked it after she left me here.”
“What woman?”
Largo thought for a minute. “I don’t know her name. I’m not sure if she was a police officer. She wasn’t in a uniform.” He put his hands in his pockets to hide how much they were shaking.
The man flipped through his clipboard. “Moorden?” he said. “Fuck. You’re supposed to be downstairs. They’ve been looking for you. You’re in trouble, you ass.”
“But I didn’t do anything. The woman brought me in here.”
The man punched him in the stomach. “Don’t talk back. You’ll learn that soon enough. Now get up and come with me.”
Largo got to his feet slowly. He had to lean against the wall to stand. In some dim part of his mind he knew that he should be terrified by what was happening, but he was too confused and in too much pain to be afraid anymore. But he knew the fear was waiting for him, and it would be all the worse for having been held back so long.
The man with the clipboard led him farther along the corridor to a set of stone stairs that wound down to a row of underground cells so old they looked like something from one of Baumann’s horror films.
Eventually, he stopped by a cell in the middle of the row. The man unlocked the door and shoved Largo inside. The only thing he could hear was the jingle of the man’s keys as he locked the door. After that, it was dead silent. Largo jumped a little when he heard a moan from the other side of the cell. A badly beaten man lay on a cot in bloody clothes. There was another cot on the other side of the room, but the thin mattress had fallen to the filthy floor. Largo was shaking enough that it was hard for him to hold on to the bars on the cell door.
“Can I speak to someone?” he said.
“No. You’ve caused us a lot of trouble today.” The man slapped Largo’s hands with the clipboard. “Next time you’re arrested, don’t lie to everyone.”
“I’m not lying. I haven’t been lying.”
While Largo watched, the man pulled the top form from his clipboard, wadded it, and dropped it on the floor.
“Wait. Is that my form?” said Largo. “Don’t you need that? Tanz will blame me if it’s missing.”
The man with the clipboard went back up the stairs while Largo yelled to him. When he was gone, Largo pulled the cot mattress back onto the frame and sat down. And for the first time, he had a moment to think.
Remy is gone and everyone thinks I did it. Is she hurt? Is she dead? It can’t be real. They’ve all
made a mistake.
He closed his eyes. His head felt tight, like it was locked in a vise. His stomach cramped violently and he vomited in the corner of the cell.
One more thing I’ll be blamed for.
He lay there in the dim light listening to the bloody man’s ragged breathing. Eventually he fell asleep.
When Largo woke up he was in more pain than he’d ever felt before. Worse than his worst hangover, bicycle accident, or any beatings he’d taken as a child in Haxan Green. Some dim part of his mind wanted simply to die and end the pain once and for all, but even if he’d had a gun, Largo knew that his hands were too shaky for him to use it.
Sometime later, his cell door opened and someone kicked his cot. It was the first officer he’d spoken to when he’d arrived at the police station. The man looked at him angrily. Largo looked down and realized that he’d vomited on himself sometime during the night. He was lucky that he hadn’t choked to death. The officer pulled a dirty towel from under the beaten man’s head and threw it to Largo. “Clean up. You’re being released,” he said.
Largo struggled to sit up. “You found Remy? Is she all right?”
“Hurry up. People are waiting.”
“Please—”
The officer casually backhanded him across the face, sending him reeling back to the cot.
“I said hurry up.”
Largo cleaned himself as well as he could with the filthy towel. The officer hadn’t sounded very reassuring earlier, and he was sure that meant they hadn’t found Remy after all. He thought of Tanz. This might be another one of his tricks. Tell me I’m being released and then take me somewhere even worse. Largo didn’t want to think about what worse might be.
The next few minutes were a painful blur. He stumbled up the spiral stairs and through the police station with the officer at his side. He signed a pile of forms as well as he could with his shaking hand, and with no time to read what they said—not that he could have read them anyway, with his head swimming. When they were done, the officer pushed Largo away from the desk. He stumbled and almost fell, barely managing to remain upright. Through the open door of the police station, he could see that it was raining outside. A man in a heavy coat and hat stood just to the side of the doorway.
Largo blinked a couple of times and said, “Herr Branca?”
Branca made a face at him. “Look at you, Largo. You’ve ruined your clothes.”
He nodded shakily. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m sick.”
“So I hear. Your trousers don’t look so bad, but take off that filthy jacket and shirt.”
Largo looked around. Police and prisoners being booked all stared at him.
“Right here?” Largo said. Then he understood what was happening but was more puzzled than frightened. “Did Tanz send you?”
Branca took off his hat and shook rain from it. “Special Operative Tanz won’t be bothering you again.”
Largo shivered. “Someone else said that to me once.”
“Well, this time it’s true. Now, take off your shirt and jacket.”
He hesitated for a moment. They already think I’m a murderer. At this point, how much worse can things get if I do what Branca says? He slipped off his jacket and shirt, holding them with two fingers to keep the vomit from his hands. “Where do I put them?”
Branca gestured with his hat. “Drop them on the floor. These fine gentlemen will clean them up. Won’t you, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” said the officer who had taken Largo from his cell. He spoke very quietly.
Branca picked up a brown grocery bag from the floor and tossed it to Largo. There was a clean jacket and shirt inside. “When you’ve put these on, come outside to the car.”
Branca put his hat on and disappeared into the rain. Largo looked around, ready for an ambush, but none of the officers made a move toward him. He put on the new clothes and went outside to the car. It was a large black sedan and it reminded him of a hearse. Branca was in the back, so Largo got in with him. It was warm inside, but the heat couldn’t penetrate the ice around his bones. A moment later, the car pulled out into the street.
Branca said, “I’m disappointed in you, Largo. Those clothes were paid for with company money and therefore belong to the company. You’ll have to pay them back.”
“I know,” said Largo through gritted teeth. “Why . . . how did you get me out?”
Branca handed him a small bottle. “Here. Use this. All that shivering is annoying.”
Largo recognized it immediately as morphia. He frantically opened the bottle and put four drops under his tongue. A second later, he began to feel better. When he started to warm up and his hands had stopped shaking, he looked at Branca.
“I don’t understand what’s happening, sir,” he said.
“Nothing could be more obvious. Rest now. We’ll talk when we’re back at your flat.”
The neighbors stared again as Largo returned home with Branca. The driver stayed with the car.
There was a police warning glued to the door of Largo’s flat. Branca tore it off and dropped it on the floor. He stood aside so that Largo could go inside first. When they were both in, Branca locked the door. Largo collapsed into a sagging chair in the corner of the room. Branca set his hat on the table with the whiskey bottle but remained standing.
Largo said, “Thank you for getting me out of there, sir.”
Branca winced. “I told you once before. Stop saying ‘sir’ so much.”
“Sorry, but I don’t understand. Why would the company send you for me? You said yourself that we’re both disposable.”
Branca clasped his hands in front of him.
“The company didn’t rescue you. I did. Do you know how, or can you perhaps guess why? Take your time. I find that it’s better for auxiliary to work it out themselves.”
Auxiliary? What does that mean?
Largo looked at the older man across the room, in his heavy black coat, and then at his matching homburg hat.
“You’re not Herr Branca,” he said.
“Don’t be stupid. Of course I am.”
“You’re not the dispatcher at the company.”
“I’m that too. But a person can be more than one thing at a time, can’t he? Come on. You’re a bright boy. Say it.”
Though Largo was inside and had morphia in his system, he grew cold again. “You’re the Nachtvogel.”
“Very good,” said Branca softly.
Largo put his hand over his eyes. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Why are you helping me? Tanz thinks I’m a murderer.”
“That’s because Tanz is an idiot and under a great deal of pressure to close the case of poor missing Remy. You were an easy and obvious catch, so he chose you.”
Largo had a terrible thought. “You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
“I assure you we didn’t. We have no interest in her other than keeping Baron Hellswarth—that is to say, Schöne Maschinen—functioning and productive.”
“Then who hurt her?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Branca. “But we know it wasn’t you. And we’ll soon find out.”
“So you brought me home because you know I’m innocent.”
“What is innocent?” Branca picked up the whiskey bottle and put it down again. “But yes—partly that, and partly because the Nachtvogel needs your services.”
The fear Largo had been dreading welled up inside him. “What kind of services?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. We simply want you to go back to work and continue in the fine manner that you’ve proven you’re capable of.”
“The bullocks took my bicycle.”
Branca sighed. “We’ll provide you with a new one.”
Largo shook his head, trying to clear it. “Do I understand this right? The Nachtvogel wants me to be their courier?”
“That’s one way to put it. But I wouldn’t say it out loud if I were you. Instead, you should just say you’ll be working through the company, receiving
your normal pay and all the other benefits of your position,” said Branca. “You see, Largo, you’re what we call a ‘useful fool.’ You do your job well and you don’t ask many questions. You’re a very pliable boy. All it took to recruit you was a promotion and fifteen minutes more for lunch.”
Largo said, “I didn’t know I was being recruited.”
“Yes, that’s the ‘fool’ part I mentioned earlier, or weren’t you listening?”
“All this time, the insults, the digging at my every action—it was all a game to you.”
Branca straightened the collar of his coat. “I’ve had my fun, yes.”
Feeling stronger, Largo sat up. “My deliveries, they weren’t real deliveries, were they?”
“Some were. Others were more finely tuned to our needs. You tracked radicals for us, confirming their whereabouts. And you planted evidence on undesirables, both high and low.”
Largo thought about the gun he’d taken to Frau Heckert and the ink to the Black Palace. He thought about Margit.
“Is this why you always changed receipt books?”
“Naturally. As I recall, you did ask a question about them once before. But you were also satisfied with the flimsiest of answers. As if I cared how dirty your receipt books were.” He shook his head. “Your receipt books were special. We wanted your customers to touch them to obtain fingerprints. There were also quite minuscule photochrome devices in some of the books, so we were able to gather images of various suspects.”
Largo wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.
Branca said, “I assume I don’t have to tell you to keep your distance from Ihre Skandale? Unless there’s a story we want you to give them, of course.”
Something came to him. “Is Una at the Grand Dark a Nachtvogel?”
Branca brightened. “Why do you ask?”
“There was a play about a murder that hadn’t happened yet.”
“That was an experiment to see how smoothly we could coordinate our efforts. It wasn’t bad for a first try. The next one will be better.”
“Who were you murdering, the man or the young girl?”
“Very good! Both, actually. It was simpler that way.”
Largo looked down at the floor. “But why the Grand Dark? They tell stories about ghosts and adulterers and mad scientists.”
The Grand Dark Page 27