The boy in the shorts drew up and tucked himself in at Radek’s side. Radek placed an arm around the boy’s shoulders, and they stood and watched with the rest. Hoffner thought to say something, but he was as alien to this as he was to any other moments of kinship.
The phonograph needle slipped again into rootless scratching, and Hoffner turned and headed for the door.
THE HASENHEIDE
YOU’ RE SURE YOU DON’ T WANT ICE, at least for the hands?”
The man behind the counter set down another pot of coffee, then took the coin by Hoffner’s cup. Hoffner shook his head. “Won’t do much good now, anyway.”
The man nodded in the direction of the café’s large front windows as he tossed the coin into a drawer. “I told you. Every morning. First one in.”
Hoffner turned to see a young man—a boy, really, not much older than Sascha—moving down the street. He wore a dinner jacket with the tie undone and a long overcoat opened at the front.
“Same outfit. Same idiotic grin. For the last three weeks, give or take.”
Hoffner forced down another half cup as he continued to watch.
“Nothing but weak tea and day-old rolls when he’s in here. You’d think he’d order something a bit livelier—a glass of Sekt, maybe sardines. I think he dreams of being an accountant.”
The man might have been surprised to hear what lives accountants were leading these days. “When do the rest show up?” said Hoffner.
“The artistic types? Not at all since Smiling Boy started putting in an appearance. Don’t ask me why. Before then, around ten. In here for a coffee, schnapps, whatever else they could convince me I’d be tossing out, and then the mass migration over. A very skinny, very pretty herd of legs and eyes moving off.”
“You’re quite the poet.”
“Yah. Now if only I could get some of those eyes and legs into bed with me I’d be happy to bring out the good rolls in the morning.”
Hoffner picked up his hat and placed a few more coins on the counter. “I’ll take a pass.”
The man slid most of the money back. “It’s too much.”
Hoffner stood and swallowed the last of his coffee. “My contribution. To the big-game fund.”
Outside, Friedrichstrasse was showing healthy signs of life. This far south, the avenue was a quick trip in from the suburbs. Senior clerks and dentists and minor bureaucrats could leave their middle-class homes well past seven and still make it here by eight, having already peeled through the BZ or the Morgenpost or, for those who fancied themselves serious businessmen, a few pages of the Börsen-Courier. These were the little worker bees who tried so hard to understand all the densest articles, conversations over lunch about trade agreements and currency revaluations, all of it gibberish. More likely it had been a tram ride in, rapt in the BZ and the lurid details of how some husband had finally beaten his wife to death, “the last act of the tragedy coming, one neighbor said, when ‘he turned her gas off.’ ” Murder always kept the public reading. Then again it was Wednesday. The Morgenpost would be running its Regular Talk from Old Man Mudicke, who didn’t like taking a few slaps at all those fat cats running things now.
It was something of a surprise, then, to come across the Phoebus Film Company in such staid surroundings, more so to find all its studios, costume shops, construction halls, and storage rooms crammed into the single six-story building at number 225. Twenty years ago, a few cameras and the same dozen costumes had been sufficient for the four or five films shooting on any given day. Things had grown more complex since then—Ufa had seen the future as far back as 1912, with its purchase of the Neubabelsberg land—but Phoebus had decided to keep its costs to a minimum. Not that anything it had ever put out warranted that kind of expansion. Fright films with a bit of skirt could be shot almost anywhere. Even so, there was an air of desperation or denial that hung over the place with the same dreary certainty of failure now etched into the unwashed stone of the façade.
Hoffner crossed the street and caught sight of his reflection in a window. His hat was helping to shade the bruising around his eyes, but there was nothing to mask the welt on his chin. Above, the cuts on his lips had grown into a railway track of dried blood leading up to the cheek. At least his gloves were hiding the swelling on his knuckles.
A woman in thick glasses emerged from one of the shops. As she passed, she stared at Hoffner a moment too long. Evidently today would be filled with explanations.
He reached Phoebus—the P and the H of the logo lost to a peeling of gold plate—and pressed the bell. He heard nothing and tried again. It was only then that he noticed the door resting off its latch. Hoffner slowly pushed forward and followed the handle in.
The place looked as if a stampede had run through it. It was a wide-open space, with thick wires sprouting from holes in the few walls that were still standing. Hoffner could see where the offices and studios had been, but they were all reduced to piles of chipped plaster and rubbled brick dotting the floor. The one solid piece remaining was the staircase on the near wall. Taking hold of the banister—it was surprisingly firm in his grip—Hoffner headed up.
The top floor, like the rest, had no internal walls to speak of, although here the windows were letting in a good deal of sun. Something large and white jutted out about halfway down, but it looked more like an abandoned set piece than anything of structural value. The only nod to an office was in the far corner, a desk, ten or so filing cabinets, two chairs and a couch, the last of which displayed Herr Dinner Jacket draped across in apparent sleep. Hoffner did his best to kick through several piles of plaster as he approached, but the tilt of the boy’s head suggested that even a brass band might have had little effect. Hoffner settled for a quick shaking of the shoulder.
The boy’s eyes blinked open. He seemed unsure where he was before squinting up and running a hand across his nose. “What the . . . You lot usually don’t start in until ten. It’s not ten, is it?”
“Gives you enough time for a nap?”
The boy brought his hand up to shade his eyes. “What?”
“You’ve been down for less than five minutes. Trust me, you’re not all that groggy.”
The boy pulled himself up and rubbed the back of his neck. “What time is it?”
Hoffner pulled out his badge. “Time to wake up.” He moved to the desk and opened the top drawer. “So, who usually doesn’t come in until ten?”
The last half minute replayed itself in the boy’s eyes before he cleared his throat and stuck a hand out in Hoffner’s direction. “Let me see that again.”
Hoffner tossed the badge over and continued to sift through the collection of loose clips and half-smoked cigarettes. He pulled out two reams of advertising postcards, one for something called Queen of Spades, the other for an equally menacing Ghost Train. He placed them on the desk.
“Kripo,” said the boy. For some reason he continued to stare at the badge.
Hoffner finished with the drawers. “So who are we waiting for?”
The boy looked over and tossed the badge back. “Waiting for . . . ? Oh. Construction. They’re redoing the place. Usually get to it without bothering me.”
“From what is obviously your very important work.”
The boy tried a laugh, but something caught in his throat. He grimaced and swallowed.
Hoffner said, “It’s been a rough three weeks, then, since the girls stopped showing up?”
The boy stretched as he looked over. “Very nice. Am I meant to be impressed?”
Ten years ago a boy like this would have pissed his pants at the sight of a Kripo badge. Now it was a yawn and a smart remark. “You’ve an admirer in the café across the street,” said Hoffner. “What happened three weeks ago?”
The sudden laughter caught Hoffner by surprise. “I got the sack. At least now I’ve got my evenings to myself.”
The wear on the dinner jacket made clear how eagerly the boy had taken to his recent freedom. “You might think about a good cl
ean for that shirt.”
“Why?” said the boy. “I won’t be able to afford a club in a week’s time, so why waste the money? No one notices, anyway.”
Even elegance had grown dingy, thought Hoffner, and not for the excesses. It was simply a matter of effort, and boys like this had given up on that. What, then, was the point in a moral decline without a little panache to ease the fall? At least back east the half-dead had kept their bows clean and their stockings rolled tight to the thigh.
“So they sacked you the same time they started ripping up the place,” said Hoffner. “What a coincidence.”
“Not really.” The boy stood and made his way over. “It won’t be workable for another few months. Perfect time to toss out a few junior execs. Trim the fat and so forth.”
“You don’t seem terribly put out.”
The boy shrugged. “I’m young. I’ll latch on somewhere. Plus, this place is sinking.” He picked up one of the advertising cards and shook his head. “Ghost Train. I’m sure you can’t wait to see this beauty.” He flipped the card back onto the desk. “They’ve done a few of the mountaintop flicks—the noble climber and skier up in the clouds—but there’s nothing much to them. Me, I’m looking for something more serious. You know, the arty stuff—Murnau, Pabst. All these swinging tits and screaming ghouls don’t really have a future, if you ask me.” He looked over. “I mean unless you like that sort of thing. I suppose people do. They can be fun in a . . .” He was struggling to find the words.
“In a kind of dull-witted-heavy-handed-middle-class-Kripo-cop sort of way?” Hoffner let the boy dangle a moment longer before saying, “Screaming ghouls don’t really do it for me, either. So why do they have you here?”
“No idea. Make sure nothing gets taken while they’re shipping it out?”
“Storage?”
The boy shrugged again. “They don’t keep me apprised.”
“So they shut it all down. That’s going to lose them some money.”
“Can’t really lose it when you’re not making any to begin with.” For the first time Hoffner gave in to a quiet laugh. “I can’t imagine why they sacked you.”
“Yah. I’m a big supporter of the firm. So what is it the Phoebus Film Company can do for the Kripo?”
It was a question Hoffner had yet to answer. “Where are they sending everything?”
The boy went with what he knew: he shrugged. This time, though, the nonchalance seemed less convincing.
“So you haven’t had to sign for anything?” said Hoffner.
The boy hesitated. “Is there someone I should be calling about this?”
“Ah,” said Hoffner. “The sudden pangs of loyalty.”
The boy laughed again. He was handling himself well beyond his years. Hoffner had to appreciate Phoebus’s choice in sentries.
The boy said, “You obviously don’t know the film world, do you, Inspector? I’d actually like to work again somewhere. So if certain information gets out, and if that information turns out to be a problem for Phoebus, and it happens to lead back to me . . . you see my concern.”
The boy was wrong. Hoffner did know the world. Petty crooks and unwritten codes were the same no matter where, or how flush, the bank accounts. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. “What about Lang?”
The boy needed a moment. “What?”
“Lang. Fritz Lang. Is that serious enough for you?”
Again the boy waited. “Sure. Of course.”
“Good. Hand me the telephone.”
Hoffner dialed and then held the receiver up between them. A man’s voice answered. “Hallo. Herr Lang’s residence.”
Hoffner recognized the icy charm of Lang’s valet. He looked at the boy and said, “Yes. This is Chief Inspector Hoffner. Is Herr Lang available?”
“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him, Herr Chief Inspector.”
Hoffner kept his eyes on the boy. “He asked me to get in touch today.”
“Herr Lang will be at the theater all day, mein Herr. You can reach him through Herr Reinhardt’s secretary. I have the number.”
Half a minute later, Hoffner hung up the telephone.
“Is that enough of an incentive?” he said.
The boy was still piecing it together. “You can get me a meeting with Lang?”
“I can tell him to hire you if things go well.” Both knew it was a lie, but Hoffner had come to recognize the vital role of exaggeration in this particular world.
The boy studied Hoffner’s face—it was the first sign of his inexperience—and smiled. “The place is finished, anyway.”
“Yes, you’ve said that.”
Again he hesitated. “The Hasenheide. Everything’s getting shipped out to an address in the Hasenheide.”
“And the filing cabinets?”
The boy held out his hand. “I’ll be needing a card and Lang’s telephone number, I think.”
Hoffner obliged, and the boy pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “All you’ll find is a bunch of old contracts, but be my guest.” He reached for his coat.
“Weak tea and a roll?” said Hoffner. The boy looked over and Hoffner added, “Order the sardines. You’ll make a new friend.”
The boy smiled. “I can give you an hour.” He slipped on his coat and headed for the stairs. Halfway there, he stopped and turned around. “I’m trusting there’s still an honest cop in Berlin. I shouldn’t be concerned you’ve already had your face bashed in this morning, should I?”
Hoffner had almost forgotten the bruises. “I’ll leave the keys on the desk.”
The boy nodded and walked off. “Try not to bleed on anything.”
FORTY MINUTES LATER, Hoffner had filled two pages of his notebook with what amounted to nothing. The boy had been right. The cabinets were stocked with contracts, shipping forms, release documents—the usual minutiae of German efficiency—some of it dating as far back as 1908. When he finally found the folder with the Hasenheide papers—mislabeled as correspondence: 1924—it proved to be much the same until he reached the last sheet. Reading the signature page, Hoffner felt a sudden need to sit down.
According to the first few pages, Phoebus had purchased two new long-term storage warehouses on the northern edge of the Hasenheide three months ago, but not without help. The co-signer had been a limited partnership with the name of Ostara KG. Not that Hoffner was terribly familiar with the legal jargon, but it appeared that the Ostara Company had loaned Phoebus the money on an “extended and non-terminable basis.” In other words, there was no expectation of the money coming back. There was also no indication that Phoebus had any intention of retrieving its equipment anytime soon.
The rest of the document was a short statement on what “all interested parties” could hope to gain from the new purchases, very vague and even more jargon-laden. That was all interesting in itself, but far more troubling were the signatures that followed. They read: W. Lohmann, T. von Harbou, J. Goebbels, K. Daluege.
The first, Lohmann, was completely unknown to Hoffner. The last three, however, were—as of yesterday—all too familiar: Thea von Harbou was the current Frau Lang and the apparent link to Ufa; Joseph Goebbels and Kurt Daluege had been at the Pharus Hall with the new National Socialists; even the name Ostara struck a chord.
Moments like these usually brought some sort of satisfaction—even if the why remained elusive—but this time none of it seemed to matter. The inclusion of Goebbels and Daluege meant that Sascha was somehow involved. Knowingly or not, the boy had stepped onto a stage far beyond the confines of right-wing crank politics. Hoffner felt the need either to protect or beat him senseless. Then again, hadn’t he started in on that last night?
He flipped the notebook shut and tossed the keys onto the desk. With the file in his coat pocket, he headed for the stairs.
THE MORGUE AT THE ALEX is more of an examination room than a full-scale facility, even if the last few years have seen the arrival of various machines and storage trays to rival the city
morgue across town. Bodies are no longer stacked in tiers on wooden platforms inside the ice rooms; now everyone has his own private compartment. The only trouble, of course, is the smell. Traces of ammonia and sulfur have a tendency to trickle up through the stairwell. By the time the swinging doors at the end of the corridor come into view, the whole thing is at full stench. Granted, it could be worse. Up until a year ago, the attendants had been using some sort of chloride mixture when one of their own had lost a lung to a leak in two of the steel cabinets. The whole place had been contaminated for a week, sending several of the less pressing cases up to the third floor in makeshift tubs of ice. Naturally, a different kind of smell had followed. Hoffner was happy enough to suffer through the more familiar tang as he pushed through the doors.
Truth to tell, this was the last place he had expected to be twenty minutes ago. Then, he had been planning on a quick visit with Lang—a few questions about his rather surprising wife—when, half a block from the theater, Hoffner suddenly recalled the truth about legal documents: they were never about what was on the page; they were about what was missing from it. The name Gerhard Thyssen had been conspicuously absent from the Hasenheide file. It was now time to find out why.
A man in a patrolman’s coat was seated behind the desk, his face buried in yesterday’s motorcycle results. The sound of the hinge brought his eyes up. He quickly deposited the paper in a drawer and pulled out something official-looking. He began to scribble as Hoffner drew up.
“Burggaller manage to keep the bike under him this time?” said Hoffner as he waited for the eyes, but the man continued to write.
“Third in Essen,” said the man. “Italians were one, two.”
“Shame,” said Hoffner. “If only they’d been able to shoot that well, who knows, we might have won the war.”
The man finished and looked up. “So what is it we can do for the Kripo?”
No one ever requested a posting to the morgue. It gave those who ended up here a kind of freedom when it came to respect: they doled it out to no one. “Thyssen,” said Hoffner. “Gerhard Thyssen. He came in two days ago. Apparent suicide.”
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