Shadow and Light

by Jonathan Rabb

  “He gets nothing without that device.” Pimm’s arrogance was losing its edge. “She wouldn’t have told them, would she?”

  Hoffner rummaged for another cigarette. “Who?”

  “The American—your friend. She wouldn’t have said anything to Hugenberg’s boys?”

  “About what?” Hoffner gave up the search.

  “About Wannsee, Nikolai. About Lang.” Pimm was getting tired of pulling him along. “What else would I be talking about?”

  The thought of Leni’s last few minutes only now crossed Hoffner’s mind. She had looked so peaceful in the tub. Cling to that, he thought.

  Again Pimm barked at his man: “Take the next left. We’re heading out to Wannsee. Scher—”

  “No,” said Hoffner with a newfound focus. “It’s forty minutes to get there, even at this hour. You call Lang from the Alex. Either he answers or he doesn’t, and we take it from there.” He leaned forward. “We’re going straight on.”

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS were surprisingly lively for almost half past two. Two Schutzis were posted at the entrance. Neither looked as if he had held a gun—let alone fired one—in the last thirty years, but at least they were upright. The desk sergeant also had company: two junior detectives were looking very busy while doing absolutely nothing.

  “You have men at the back doors?” Hoffner said as he walked up. The two detectives looked at each other, then at the sergeant.

  “Well, Sergeant?” one of them said. “The chief inspector has asked—”

  Hoffner broke in. “He heard me, Detective. Get men in the alleys. Not that it’ll make any difference now.” Hoffner checked the clock above the desk and signed himself in. He began to move off when one of the detectives said, “Herr Chief Inspector.” Hoffner stopped. The boy was looking at Pimm. “That’s—” The detective leaned into Hoffner and whispered, “That’s Alban Pimm.”

  “Really?” said Hoffner in full voice. “Then I’ve been terribly misinformed. He told me he was Charlie Chaplin. You’ll stay down here, Detective, just in case the rest of his crew shows up dressed as the Tiller Girls.”

  Upstairs, a large guard was posted outside Hoffner’s office. This one looked menacing enough. If not for the closed eyes he might actually have served as a deterrent.

  “You’re relieved, Sergeant,” said Hoffner. The man’s eyes bolted open as he tried to focus. “Get us some coffees. Black.”

  The man managed a clipped nod before darting off down the hall. Hoffner stepped into his office with Pimm behind him.

  There was almost nothing to indicate anyone had been here. The books stood at their usual odd angles on the shelves, as did the stacks of papers across the floor. The only glaring difference was on the blank wall, which Pimm was now staring at as he picked up the telephone. “That’s charming,” he said, the words WONDER WHO WE’LL BE CALLING ON NEXT? written in a thick black ink. For some reason the word “calling” was underlined in red. “And so well thought out,” said Pimm.

  Hoffner was checking the rest of the office. “You’d think they would have put the emphasis on ‘next.’ ” A small jar with two bones in formaldehyde lay knocked on its side. Hoffner stood it upright. “Obviously we’re not dealing with geniuses here. Still, it makes its point.”

  The operator came on, and Pimm said, “I need you to connect me with Wannsee 772 . . . Well, I don’t recognize your voice either, Fräulein . . . Yes, I know it’s late . . .” Pimm thrust the receiver at Hoffner, who was kneeling at the filing cabinets. Hoffner took the telephone and said, “This is Chief Inspector Hoffner. You’ll be good enough to connect the line.” The numbers began to click through, and Hoffner handed the telephone back.

  Pimm again stared at the wall as he waited. “And that’s it?” he said. “They break in to send this terribly threatening message.”

  Hoffner was down to the last of the drawers. “They didn’t break in, Alby. Incompetent as those Schutzis may be, no one breaks into the Alex. No one’s that stupid.” Hoffner slid the drawer closed: nothing was out of place. “The boys who did this were already inside. They just happened to get caught in the act.” He stood and stepped around to the desk.

  “Bad cops?” said Pimm.

  Hoffner started in on the next set of drawers. “What a surprise that would be. Not that you’ve had any experience with those.” Hoffner opened the bottom drawer: even the whiskey bottle and glass were untouched. “These cops aren’t the types you deal with, anyway. They aren’t in it for the bribes.” He shut the drawer and scanned the office again. “My guess, these boys are young.” The mirror on the far shelf was off-center: chances are it had been that way for months. “Young, impatient, and with a taste for politics. They were probably at the Pharus Hall the other night.”

  “That’s comforting to hear.”

  “Yah.”

  “It’s still ringing.”

  Hoffner peered around the edge of the desk. “Telephones tend to do that at three in the morning.” There was something there.

  “It’s only quarter to.”

  “You be sure to explain that to Lang when he picks up.” Hoffner dropped down and angled his body around to get a better look. He saw it almost at once. Had he been thinking clearly, this was where he should have looked first.

  Of the four piles of film canisters stacked on the floor three nights ago only two remained. The young politicos had evidently spent too much of their time on the artwork and not enough on what they had been sent to steal.

  “It’s here,” said Hoffner. He began to set the canisters on the desk. “There’s a ledger,” he said to Pimm, “at the back of the third drawer in the cabinet. I need you to get it.”

  Pimm kept the telephone to his ear as he opened the drawer and began to dig through. “Yes, Fräulein,” he said into the receiver. “Yes, I know.” He pulled out the book. “Just let it ring.” He tossed the ledger onto the desk and cupped the mouthpiece. “No one’s answering.”

  Hoffner stacked the last of them and stood. He opened the ledger to the page with Leni’s list and said, “I need you to read the names on the canisters, see which ones they’ve taken.” Pimm said nothing, and Hoffner said, “You can put the telephone down, Alby. Obviously no one’s going to answer.”

  Pimm seemed unwilling to move. “You do understand that no answer means—”

  “Means what?” Hoffner said evenly. “That the Langs are heavy sleepers? That they’re both dead and your device is gone? Not much we can do about either from here.” He began to sift through the top drawer for a pen. “If you think it’ll make any difference, call your boys. Let them take a drive out to Wannsee.”

  Pimm’s stare hardened. “I’m not sure you’ve been paying attention, Nikolai. That device is—”

  “Is what?” Hoffner looked up. He was tired, wet, and the booze was beginning to abandon him. “Don’t insult us both by trying to play at detective now, Alby. This is what they came to get. This is what they thought was worth rummaging through an office in the Alex for. So this is what we focus on.”

  “Really? And if Lang and the device are gone?”

  “Then Hugenberg’s beaten you before you begin. This is what his boys came for. We need to know why.”

  The large sergeant had somehow reappeared at the door and was doing what he could with an awkward cough. He held a mug of coffee in each hand. He said, “I can get some cream if you like, Herr Chief Inspector.” His voice was thinner than his large body deserved. “Or sugar?”

  Hoffner looked past Pimm and said, “You didn’t happen to see any of them, did you, Sergeant?”

  The boy was either at a loss or exhausted. Whichever it was, he was useless. “See who, Herr Chief Inspector?”

  “The men who were in my—Never mind. Just set the coffees on the desk.” Hoffner started in on the second drawer in search of a pen.

  The boy moved past Pimm, and his eyes widened. He nearly bumped into the desk as he leaned over to Hoffner. “Herr Chief Inspector,” he whispered, nodding hi
s head back over his shoulder. “You know that’s Alban—”

  “Yes, Sergeant, I know.” Hoffner felt something promising wedged in at the back. “I’ve finally caught him. We’ll have a big party tomorrow. Now just put the coffees down.”

  The sergeant nodded awkwardly and did as he was told. Hoffner yanked on the pen, and a nice stream of coffee spilled over the edge and onto the desk.

  “Oh no,” said the sergeant. “Oh God, no.”

  Hoffner looked at the desk. Luckily the coffee had missed the canisters. The liquid was pooling around various scraps of paper. “It’s all right, Sergeant,” said Hoffner. “You’re fine. Not your fault. Just go get us a—”

  “Yes,” said the boy frantically. “A rag. Right away, Herr Chief Inspector.” He quickly dashed past Pimm, and Hoffner found himself holding on to a thin steel pipe. Where the hell was a pen?

  He set it down and began to lift the papers out of the coffee. He glanced through them to make sure he wasn’t throwing anything vital away. These were the switchboard messages from Georg this afternoon. He might have tossed them out en masse, except he recalled that each had consisted of the single line “Get in touch.” This one had more on it. He checked the time signature: 7:45 p.m. Apparently it had come in after the meeting with Bagier. Hoffner placed the note on the desk and spread it out, doing what he could to wipe away the liquid with the back of his hand. The ink was smeared, but he managed to make it out:

  HAVE LINKS TO THYSSEN MEETINGS. KURT DALUEGE, LUDWIG

  RICHTER, RUDOLF HESS. WILL GET IN TOUCH. TOMORROW.

  As always, there was the caller’s name:

  GEORG HOFFNER

  The boy had gone back to dig up more. Hoffner wondered if he had done it to clear Leni or to damn her—either way, it made no difference now: Pimm had already told him who had been making the films back at the flat. Granted, Hoffner might not have recognized the names Richter and Hess, but Daluege was Goebbels’s man. His signature had been prominently displayed on the Ostara Company documents.

  Hoffner was about to toss it with the rest when he stopped. There was a sudden stillness in the room; in fact, everything around him seemed to stop as he stared at the paper.

  This one had been on top of the pile for anyone to see. KURT DALUEGE, LUDWIG RICHTER, RUDOLF HESS. And below them, GEORG HOFFNER.

  Hoffner continued to stare at his son’s name.

  It was impossible to think that Hugenberg’s boys would have missed this, not with their own compatriots’ names gazing up at them. Hoffner suddenly glanced up at the wall and again saw the red streak under the word “calling.”

  A panic crept into the stillness. There had been no mistake in emphasis. The artwork hadn’t been meant for him. It had been meant for Georg—for the caller.

  Hoffner’s head went numb. They would go after the boy now. They would find him, just as they had found Martha eight years ago: another message for his own recklessness.

  “We need to take these,” he said as he began to stuff as many of the canisters as possible into his coat pockets.

  Pimm was still on the telephone. His confusion gave way to concern. “So we are heading out to Wannsee?”

  Hoffner scanned the floor. He saw a large leather bag filled with God-knows-what and quickly stepped over. Dumping it out, he slid the rest of the canisters and the ledger in and, without another word, bolted by Pimm. The sergeant was halfway down the hall, saying something, but Hoffner heard none of it. He pushed past him and began to run.

  THE MYSTERY SOLVED

  THE RAIN HAD TURNED TO SNOW, swirls of it like moths circling the lamps out in the square. It might have been the cold, or the shock of the whiteness all around him, but Hoffner only now realized he had no way of getting to Georg: no trams, no cabs. He was still struggling for breath as he pulled at his coat collar, the snow already thick on the wet wool. Turning back to the Alex, he nearly bumped into a wheezing Pimm.

  “That was clever,” Pimm said, his hand in the air for his car. “Leaving me unescorted. I think your big sergeant thought he was going to arrest me. What the hell is going on?”

  The car pulled up, and Hoffner leaned into the driver’s window. “Cranachstrasse,” he said. He got in and barked, “Now.” Pimm was barely inside before the car lurched away. Even so, Pimm knew enough to keep things calm. “So we’re heading south,” he said. “And why is that?”

  Hoffner was still clutching at the leather bag. He dropped it to the floor and leaned forward insistently. “Can we take this any faster—put some weight behind it?”

  Pimm caught sight of his man’s eyes in the mirror and nodded. He then grabbed on to the seat strap as the car began to swerve with its newfound speed.

  Pimm said quietly, “Roads are a bit dicey, Nikolai. Might be an idea to get there in one piece.”

  “My son,” said Hoffner. “Georg. He left a note.” Hearing it aloud only drove the knife in deeper. “I think they know he’s involved.”

  The car careened around a turn, and Pimm called out, “Alive, Heinrich.” The car slowed, and Pimm said, “And is he?”

  Hoffner felt everything folding in on him, the weight of his own arrogance like a vise pressing down on his head. He alone was responsible for this. I’ve killed him, he thought. I’ve killed them both. There was no escaping Leni now. And for what? He knew there could be no answer—there would never be an answer. This was a self-damning too brutal to see beyond, and not for the pain of it—familiar and thus comforting—but for the absolute silence it would bring. And that terrified him.

  Pimm said, “They lock up the Gymnasiums pretty tight at night, Nikolai.” He was showing a surprising compassion. “Not likely they’d find their way in.”

  Hoffner snapped his head up. He had completely forgotten this: the boy wasn’t at the Gymnasium; he hadn’t been for months. The momentary reprieve filled his lungs, and Hoffner held on to it like a drowning man who believes in that single breath beyond his last.

  CRANACHSTRASSE WAS EMPTY: better still, there were no tire tracks in the snow. The place was all lifeless trees, iron lamps, and powdered stoops. Hoffner pointed the driver to the building and leaped out before the car had come to a stop. He took the stairs two at a time and pressed the bell, glancing up, hoping to see a light. Everything remained unbearably still.

  He pressed the bell again, and Pimm suddenly appeared at his side, pulling something from his coat pocket.

  “A gift from the boys,” said Pimm: it was a picklock, gold, with the initials AP etched into the gilt. “ ‘A little alderman for the Little Alderman.’ I’ve never actually used it.” He flipped out the two claws and within seconds had the door open. “Nice to see you never lose your touch.”

  Hoffner raced in and up the stairs. By the time he heard the sound of shuffling feet beyond Georg’s door, Pimm was just making it to the fourth-floor landing.

  “Yes?” said a tired voice.

  Hoffner whispered, “It’s Nikolai. Nikolai Hoffner. Open up.”

  The door slid back, and Georg stood there in his robe, bleary-eyed. Instantly Hoffner pulled him in tight. They had no precedent for this, at least not without sufficient booze to let it seem something other than it was. Hoffner grasped at the boy’s back, the ribs and shoulder blades now padded by muscle and weight. For Hoffner, though, he felt something else, something long gone—the tiny-boned back, the chest concave, the cheek smooth against his own. He kissed the boy on the neck and whispered, “You’re all right, then,” and let go.

  Georg stared at his father, his fatigue matched only by his confusion. He looked at Pimm and—with nothing better to offer—said, “Hello there.”

  Pimm smiled awkwardly. “I’ll take a pass on the embrace.”

  Georg blinked some life into his eyes. “Fair enough.” He stepped back and said, “I’m guessing you want to come in.”

  Hoffner followed the boy inside. His mind was fighting to find its focus. “You need to get your things. We need to go.”

  Georg was at the
sofa, tossing various bits of clothing and paper onto the floor. “It’s not that much of a sty, is it?” He sat.

  “We need to go.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that.”

  “Look—Georgi”—Hoffner chafed at the word—“I’m trying to protect you here.”

  Georg swept something off the sofa’s arm. “That’d be a first.”

  “I need you to listen to me.”

  Georg looked at his father. “And that would be part of the protecting, would it?”

  The relief at seeing his son alive was losing its pull. “I never said I was any good at it.”

  “No,” said Georg. “You never did.” He dug his hands into the pockets of his robe. “So—what is it you’re protecting me from?”

  Hoffner felt suddenly parched. “You wouldn’t have any water, would you?” Georg nodded to the sink, and Hoffner stepped over to fill a glass. He said, “Your flatmate should probably come as well.”

  “He’s not here,” said Georg. “He has a girl. She sneaks him in.”

  “I bet she does,” said Pimm.

  Hoffner shot a glance at Pimm. “This is Alby. He’s a criminal.” Georg and Pimm exchanged nods, and Hoffner said, “You were right. She was after something else.” When Georg yawned, Hoffner said, “She’s dead, by the way.” Hoffner drank.

  Georg did his best to show nothing. “Then I’m sure Albert will be disappointed. He was rather fond of her.” When Hoffner stared vacantly, Georg said, “Albert . . . My flatmate . . . His girl.” This didn’t seem to help. “A joke.”

  Hoffner threw his glass against the wall, and the water and glass splattered on Georg’s head. Instantly Georg leaped up and shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Since we’re making jokes,” Hoffner said, “I thought I’d give it a try. Yours was funnier, I imagine.”

  Georg was still in shock as he shook the water from his hair. He pulled something off his robe and flicked it to the ground. “That was glass,” he said.