“We’ll see what we can do,” he said as he darted the car in front of a tram just turning for the center of town.
Das MARINETRANSPORT-ABTEILUNG Wegewahl-büro—Naval Transport Division Routing Bureau—lacked any of the grandeur of the Bendlerblock. In fact, it looked more like a second-rate business office: a few modern floors in an otherwise soulless heap of glass and steel tucked in among the rest of the buildings along the street. A silver plaque, with the single word “Routing,” nested among the row that listed Roepke Insurance, Bieberback Tailoring, and Ebbinghaus Travel Publishing. Such was the Navy’s fate in a post-Versailles Germany. At least they had garnered the top floors.
“Is Hugenberg doing travel brochures now?” Leni said as she glanced at the plaques.
“I’m thinking of a new suit,” said Hoffner.
“Really? I’m very good at picking out suits.”
He reached into his pocket for a few coins. “There was a place about a block back. Looked nice enough. Not too crowded.” He held the coins out to her. “I’ll take a plate of noodles with some sausage. White sausage. And a beer, not too cold.” When she continued to stare at him, he said, “You said you were hungry.”
“While you get yourself a suit?” she said flatly.
“Something like that.”
She took the coins. “You know you’re coming due for another slap.”
“Then let’s hope it can wait another ten, fifteen minutes.” She gave in to a half-smile and he said, “Staying at Ufa when this is done. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
He had caught her unawares, himself as well. Still, it felt right asking.
When she had recovered sufficiently to answer, she said, “Are you saying you want me to stay?”
He imagined that was exactly what he was saying, but why muddy things with what he wanted. “What do you really have to go back to?”
“This morning you were ready to leave me at my hotel.”
“Three days ago I didn’t know who you were.”
He thought she might take his arm. Instead, it was just an instant in the eyes before she slipped the coins into her purse. “White sausage and a beer,” she said. “I’ll try the ham. More traditional.”
“Good to hear.”
Without a thought, she brought her hand gently to his cheek. There was no reason for anything else before she headed off.
HE EXPECTED TO BE TOLD there was no one of that name in the office: Lohmann—no. Mentor Bilanz—no. Berliner Bankverein—no. Remarkably, Hoffner never got to the company names. Instead, he was ushered down a narrow corridor, with little offices on either side, and told to wait in the single chair outside the last room in the row. Herr Captain Lohmann would be with him presently. For a man who no longer existed according to Naval Personnel, Lohmann was proving quite accommodating.
Three minutes later, a woman appeared from one of the offices. She moved quickly down the corridor, knocked once on Lohmann’s door, and then turned the handle. She stepped back and motioned Hoffner in.
“The Herr Captain will see you now, Herr Chief Inspector.”
Hoffner thought he might just as well have been at the dentist’s. He stood, nodded to the woman, and pushed through the door.
Lohmann was seated behind a desk, trying to find a place for an overlarge inventory volume amid the endless stacks strewn across the carpets, chairs, and shelving. There was a second door squeezed in between two of the shelves. Hoffner felt oddly at home.
“Herr Chief Inspector,” Lohmann said as he finally decided on a not terribly steady pile. He stood and extended his hand. “Captain Walther Lohmann. The place is an absolute disaster. You’ll forgive me.” Lohmann was dressed in Navy uniform, although his coat was hanging on a rack in the corner and his shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. “Can we get you something to drink?”
Hoffner took Lohmann’s hand and said, “I’ve caught you at a bad time, Herr Captain. I should be the one apologizing.”
“No, no. Not at all.” Lohmann spoke affably and pointed to the only chair that was even remotely empty. “What is it I can do for the Kripo, Herr Chief Inspector?”
Hoffner removed a ream of paper and sat. “The Navy has you on pension, Herr Captain. You’re aware of that?”
“Pension?” Lohmann spoke with surprised amusement. “Then I suppose I should be receiving double pay each month, shouldn’t I? Not that either could really keep me afloat.” He raised a hand and laughed. “Old Navy joke. My apologies.”
“Personnel has you retired in March of 1923.”
Lohmann’s eyes bulged wide, and Hoffner wondered if this was, perhaps, the most animated figure the Navy had ever produced. “How very odd,” said Lohmann. He pressed a button on his desk. “Fräulein Zeck. Could you get in touch with Naval Personnel and inquire as to the status of my retirement? Thank you.” Lohmann released before she could answer. “But I can’t imagine that’s why the Kripo is here, Herr Chief Inspector.”
“Just some routine questions about a file that came across my desk.”
“Really? Routine? And they led you here, even though apparently I don’t exist according to the Navy? Is that right?”
Evidently Lohmann was going to be more of a challenge than the boys at the Bendlerblock. “Perhaps a little more than routine, Herr Captain.” Hoffner pulled out his notebook: that and a little silence always helped to focus the mood.
Hoffner flipped as he spoke. “It’s a company called Mentor Bilanz. Funded by . . . where is it . . . yes, the Berliner Bankverein.” He looked across at Lohmann. “Do those sound familiar, Herr Captain?”
Lohmann answered without hesitation. “I’m the chairman of the Bankverein. The other—I’m sure what you have is correct. I’d have to check my files. What kind of business is it?”
The Herr Captain was proving full of surprises. Hoffner hadn’t expected the candor. “Shipping, I think.”
“Little too broad.”
Hoffner hesitated. “Dutch or Swedish?”
Lohmann stood and began to scan the ledgers on one of the shelves by his desk. Hoffner said, “You wouldn’t know why the address for the Bankverein is somewhere in the middle of the Spree, would you, Herr Captain?”
Lohmann was busy running a finger over various spines. “It should be this address, Herr Chief Inspector,” he said distractedly. “The same as the routing office.” He pulled a book out and immediately put it back. “I seem to be the victim of some very poor clerking all around town.”
“Yes,” said Hoffner. There was no point pressing it. “And why is a naval captain the chairman of a banking concern?”
Lohmann nodded in agreement as he continued to scan the books. “That’s a very good question, Herr Chief Inspector.” He angled his head so as to read something on one of the bottom shelves. “As you can see, not a great deal about this office screams Navy.” He crouched down. “In fact, not a great deal about the German Navy itself screams Navy anymore, except, of course, for those sweet old men and little boys who stumble around the Bendlerblock entering incorrect information in their files.” Lohmann turned and swept a hand around the office. “We’re in the world of business now. Germany is trying to become the Continent’s leading transporter of goods.” He went back to his search. “Ships, rail, air. We’ll never match the English—that would upset them too much, and given the reparations and our current troubles with our friends the French, upsetting the English isn’t exactly something we want to do.” Again he pulled out a book. This time, he managed to get as far as the first page before shaking his head and slotting it back in. “The air command was under Navy jurisdiction during the war, so we still technically decide where the aeroplanes go. Rail is another matter entirely, and thank God this office doesn’t have to deal with that. The Russians—” He raised a hand. “Pardon me, the Soviets—think they’ll be running the rails across Europe, but that’s ridiculous given the infrastructure of their system. Still, no reason to make the Bolsheviks see reality.” He stepped ov
er two piles and knelt to look at a collection of files stacked loosely by the door.
Hoffner had underestimated Lohmann: the man might just be the most animated figure in the world of German commerce. “So, the bank, Herr Captain?”
“The bank,” Lohmann repeated with another nod as he continued to peel through the files. “If we’re moving into private business, Herr Chief Inspector, we also have to have our hands in private finance. The government can’t be held responsible for any failed venture we happen to get ourselves into. It’s a safety measure.” He looked back at Hoffner. “Simply put, we the Navy are trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” He set the stack to the side and pulled out a thin volume that had been hiding behind it. “England, France, Russia—they still have their navies intact. To the winner go the spoils, and so forth. But that means their ships are still being used for military purposes.” He began to flip through the book. “We have—or rather had—a significant number of ships sitting in dry dock waiting to be scuttled once the Versailles restrictions went into effect. And then someone had the brilliant idea of turning that loss into a gain. Refit the ships and put them to work moving lace from Belgium, potatoes from Ukraine, and suddenly Germany is where Europe looks to move its goods.”
“And that someone was you.”
“I suppose it was.” Lohmann closed the book. “No luck, I’m afraid.” He slid it back in and took a last scan of the shelves. “You haven’t told me the reason why I’m looking for this company, have you, Herr Chief Inspector?”
“No. I haven’t.”
Lohmann nodded with a smile. “Silly question, I suppose.” He looked over. “Any other names I could try?”
Hoffner knew it would be pointless. He shook his head and said, “And business is good, Herr Captain?”
“The idea is good, Herr Chief Inspector. Business takes a little longer to catch up.”
“You know you’re listed in the official records as an undersigner with the company. With Mentor Bilanz.”
“I’m sure I am.” Lohmann made his way back to his chair. “I’ve probably signed close to fifty contracts in the last half-year. We’re venturing in any number of directions, including and beyond shipping.”
As Lohmann settled in behind the desk, Hoffner noticed for the first time how the books and ledgers were interspersed with small model ships, framed advertising pages out of various newspapers and magazines, and even a few award placards for business production. They were displayed with the same haphazard enthusiasm as the files and volumes. This, evidently, was the way the new business spirit flourished.
“Is there ever any outside help with the funding?” Hoffner asked. It was too much to hope to hear the name Hugenberg, but still, he had to try.
Lohmann leaned back. “On occasion.”
“Any of them to do with film?”
Lohmann thought a moment. “Not off the top of my head, no, but—” Lohmann stopped himself. “Is there something wrong, Herr Chief Inspector?”
Hoffner was staring at one of the framed advertisements above Lohmann’s head. He had run by it at first. Now he couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was written in English:
LEAVE DANEPAK BEHIND AND MOVE TO DANEBRAND . . .
SLICES OF REAL FLAVOUR!
“Chief Inspector?”
Hoffner spoke almost to himself. “Bacon.”
Lohmann cocked his head to see behind him. He smiled. “Oh yes. That’s one of our ventures. I know it quite well. There’s real hope in that one.”
Hoffner looked at the framed page, the perfectly white packaging, the bright blue label, below it a plate with eggs and a few healthy strips laid out. A woman’s hands seemed to be serving it.
“It’s the Berliner Bacon Company,” Lohmann said rather proudly. “We started it last year. Do you know who eats the most bacon in the world? The English. And for some reason, they love Danish bacon. The Danes can’t seem to produce enough of it, so we’ve been buying it up by the shipload just to put a squeeze on the market. But here’s the best part. We’ve been at work on a bacon of our own, cured in an entirely new way just for the English palate. I don’t like it much, but the English who’ve tried it say it’s perfect. We’re calling it Danebrand. No harm in taking advantage of the name.”
Hoffner had been listening with only half an ear. Danish bacon was what Pimm had been moving two days ago on the docks. Hoffner nodded and said, “No harm at all, Herr Captain.”
What was becoming patently obvious was that Lohmann was nothing more than a signature on a page. His business tactics were like the strafing of a tommy gun: fire enough shots and eventually something hits. Hoffner wondered if the man even knew of the Hugenberg connection to Phoebus.
Pimm, on the other hand, played at a much savvier game. The bacon, though, was hardly enough to place him at the center of any of this. In fact, Hoffner might not even have recognized the connection at all if not for something far more recent—something he had taken in the completely wrong direction—and that now put Pimm’s name directly in front of him.
The LA Company.
The card at the Handelskammer this morning had had nothing to do with Hollywood or Leni or any of her friends in California. Of course there was no location for the company. Of course there were no products. Anyone in the syndicates would have known instantly what LA stood for: Little Alderman.
And the Little Alderman Company meant Alby Pimm.
Hoffner was on his feet before Lohmann had a chance to respond. “You’ve been very helpful, Herr Captain. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
Lohmann was momentarily at a loss. “Are you sure—” He cut himself off and stood. He extended his hand. “Very good, then. I hope I’ve been helpful.”
Hoffner took his hand. “Best of luck with the bacon.”
BAGIER
LENI WAS SEATED AT THE BAR. There were plenty of tables in the all-but-empty café, but for some reason she seemed to need a higher perch. He saw her saying something to the barman, who moved off as Hoffner stepped through the door.
“He’s been keeping it warm for you in the oven,” she said. “You can—”
“You have two pfennigs?” he asked. “I gave you all my change.”
Without asking, she reached into her purse and pulled out the coins.
Hoffner started for the back. “Tell him to keep it where it is. I’m making a telephone call.”
The smells of ammonia and stale cigarettes were familiar enough near the toilet, but there was no telephone box. Hoffner headed back to the bar. The man was already standing behind it, a plate waiting in front of him, along with a telephone.
Hoffner reached into his pocket for his badge, but the man shook him off. “The Fräulein’s told me. Call whom you like.” He stepped away and added, “Oh—and lunch is on me.” Hoffner picked up the receiver and put the call through to the Alex. Two minutes later he had a detective-in-training on the line.
“. . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Look,” Hoffner said, shutting the boy up. “Your detective-sergeant will understand. Now get up to my office and call me on the number I just gave you . . . Yes, I’ll be sure to mention you in my report.” Hoffner hung up and took a forkful of the noodles. “They’re making them more unbearable every day. I think this one might be twenty, if I’m lucky.” He looked over at the barman. “You have any salt?” The man brought over a shaker. “And I’ll take an Engelhardt, and one for the lady. Don’t worry. Those I’ll pay for.” The man made no protest as he poured out the beers. Leni was being uncharacteristically patient. Both took a sip, and the telephone rang. Hoffner picked up. “Yes . . . Catch your breath, Detective . . . Yes, you can sit on a chair.” Hoffner brought the receiver to his chest. “I have a real idiot here.” He heard the boy’s voice and brought the phone up. “What? . . . Yes, it’s where I told you, in my filing cabinet . . . No . . . No . . . Yes. Immertreu. Under I. It should be rather thick . . . Good, now there should be a separate folder for Alban Pimm . . . You have it.
Excellent. Look for a tab that says something like ‘Schedule’ or ‘Appointments’ or . . . Yes. ‘Weekly Calendar.’ Now look at the listing for Thursdays.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Our idiot’s making progress.” The boy came back. “. . . Yes . . . Excellent. And after two o’clock? . . . What?” Hoffner’s face sunk. “Damn. Of course . . . No, no, not you, Detective. The Grunwald. I should have remembered.” Hoffner thought a moment. “What about after seven? . . . One of the upstairs rooms at the . . . Yes, I’m well aware of where it is . . . What?” Hoffner’s expression now darkened. “Say again? . . . What do you mean on my desk? How many of them?”
The boy did his best to sound assertive. “Four, Herr Chief Inspector. Received by the switchboard operator and brought up to your office.”
“And every one of these messages is from my son?”
“From a Georg Hoffner, Herr Chief Inspector. One each hour, on the hour, according to the time notation on each page.”
“What do they say?”
The sound of shuffling papers filled the line before the boy’s voice came back. “ ‘Get in touch,’ ” he read. “Nothing else, Herr Chief Inspector. Except for the time notation . . . which I mentioned before.”
Hoffner checked his watch. It was four minutes to three, which meant that, if Georg was true to form, he would be calling any minute. “All right,” said Hoffner. “Listen to me, Detective. I need you to wait at my desk until the next telephone call comes through . . . Yes. It should be any time now, and it should be from my son . . .” Hoffner’s frustration was growing. “Yes, Detective. From a Georg Hoffner. I need you to tell him to call the number I gave you so that he can get in touch with me here. Do you understand? . . . No. No, you’re not to mention anything to do with Herr Pimm or any calendars . . . That’s right . . . Yes . . . Yes . . .” Hoffner’s pitch rose ever so slightly. “Just hang up the telephone, Detective.” Hoffner rang off and took a healthy swig of his beer.
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