Rosa

by Jonathan Rabb

  “Luxemburg.”

  “And ours?”

  Fichte was anxious not to stumble, having come this far. “Everything else . . . ?” he said tentatively.

  “Exactly. For the time being, we’re no longer concerned with Frau Luxemburg, with her forced, angular ruts, or with her second carver. You understand?”

  “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. I do.”

  “Good. Does this mean she’s no longer an element of the case?”

  Without hesitation, Fichte said, “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, it does not.”

  “Excellent, Hans.” Again, Hoffner smiled. “Maybe a drink for you, now and then, isn’t such a bad idea. Full marks this morning.” Fichte looked pleased, if slightly embarrassed. “All right,” said Hoffner. “So what do we do now?”

  “We—look at everything else.”

  When nothing by way of detail followed, Hoffner explained, “The morgue, Hans. I need you to go down and retrieve that bottle of preserving grease. The one from yesterday’s victim. No one’s to see you leave with it, you understand? And then I want you to meet me outside in the square. Is all of that possible?”

  “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

  “Good.”

  The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry and Electrochemistry sits on what was once the Prussian Royal Estate of Dahlem in the southwest section of town. It stretches over a thousand acres of prime riding land, and was the gift of one of those unremarkable Junker princes who, recognizing the need for “something useful in this city of ours,” ceded it to a growing Berlin. Naturally he had wanted a racecourse, or perhaps a garden “for young ladies to stroll about at their leisure,” but in the end prudence had won out. He had been happy enough to let someone else make the decision, especially when they had come to him for a little cash for the project. “Land is the greatest treasure,” he had said: it was up to the Prussian Ministry to come up with anything else. As it turned out, one member of the Ministry had voted for the racecourse; it happened to be the prince’s cousin. The rest had opted for a different kind of “useful.” The doors to the Institute had opened in October of 1912, and since then the place had been home to some of the more innovative breakthroughs in German chemical engineering and physics. Many attributed its success to the man at the top. The Direktor, however, took little credit. He had always enjoyed horse racing himself and sometimes wondered if they had all not somehow missed out on a wonderful opportunity.

  Getting to the Institute from Alexanderplatz requires two transfers, first on the No. 3 to Potsdamer Platz, then on the Nord-End 51 to Shmargendorf Depot, and finally on the No. 22A, which stops directly in front of the university’s central library. Students who fall asleep on the bus after a late night slumming it “up east” find themselves out in Grunewald before they know it, at which point most of them have no choice but to spend the night in the park and curse fate for their misadventure. Hoffner and Fichte took a cab.

  “I thought about university, at one point,” said Fichte as they moved across the plaza toward the Institute’s entrance. It was a massive building of five floors, with an ersatz Greek front of four thick columns and pediment tacked onto the faade; odder still was the circular tower that seemed to be standing sentry duty at its far right. Its roof resembled a vast Schutzi helmet—made of Thuringian slate—along with its very own imperial prong rising to the sky: an unflinching Teuton at the gates of the Temple Athena, thought Hoffner. So much for chemistry. “Not much of a student, though,” Fichte continued. “More what my father wanted me to do, I suppose. Luckily the war came along and, well, you know the rest.”

  Hoffner nodded, not having been listening, and began to mount the steps. He had to remind himself that yammering enthusiasm was a part of the Fichte-away-from-the-office days. He watched as the boy raced by to open the door for him.

  According to the wood-carved listing in the entry hall, Herr Professor Doktor Uwe Kroll was to be found on the third floor. Hoffner remembered roughly where Kroll’s office was; even so, it took them a good ten minutes to locate Kroll in the lab across from his office.

  Kroll was wearing a white lab coat, and sat staring intently at a slide beneath his microscope when the two men stepped into the room. There was nothing at all to distinguish Kroll: he projected the perfect image of the scientist, except without the eyeglasses. Fichte had always associated myopia with science. He estimated Kroll to be in his late forties.

  “That was quick, Nikolai,” said Kroll, still perched in concentration. “I didn’t expect you for another half-hour.”

  “We took a cab.”

  “Ah,” said Kroll, looking up. “The deep pockets of the Kriminalpolizei.”

  Hoffner introduced Fichte.

  Kroll said, “You should know, Herr Kriminal-Assistent, that your Detective Inspector would have made a pretty fair chemist himself. Didn’t like the symmetry, though, wasn’t that it, Nikolai? Too much coherence.” Kroll held out his hand. “All right, let’s have a look at it, this great mysterious goop of yours that’s too complex to be seen by my esteemed colleagues at police headquarters.”

  Fichte produced the bottle and handed it to Kroll, who brought it up to the light and watched as the contents oozed slowly from side to side. Kroll then brought it to his lap, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. “You said on the telephone that it was used to preserve flesh. Are you sure it wasn’t used as an inhibitor?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Hoffner.

  “As something to keep the elements of decay—animals, moisture, that sort of thing—from getting to the skin. Rather than as an agent that works with the skin. You see what I’m saying?”

  “A repellent,” said Hoffner.

  “Exactly. That would make my work much easier. On the other hand, if it is something that actually interacts with the flesh and creates a reaction, then it becomes far more complicated.”

  “And your guess is?”

  Kroll looked over at Fichte with a grin. “And now you see where the two of us go our separate ways, Herr Kriminal-Assistent. No guesses, Nikolai. I can let you know in a few days.” When Hoffner nodded, Kroll placed the jar on his table and said, “And am I right in thinking you’ll be the one to get in touch with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘Yes,’” repeated Kroll knowingly. “Must be interesting times at Kripo headquarters, these days.”

  Hoffner waited before answering. “Yes.”

  “‘Yes,’” Kroll repeated again. “And should anyone come calling from the Alex, I know nothing about this little jar. Is that right?”

  “Is that a guess, Uwe?” Without giving Kroll a chance to answer, Hoffner added, “You see, Hans? Even a chemist can show the makings of a pretty fair detective.”

  Out on the plaza, the rain had returned as freezing drizzle; it slapped at the face like tiny pieces of glass, but did little to dampen Fichte’s enthusiasm.

  “You saw what he did?” said Fichte eagerly. “When he opened the bottle?”

  Reluctantly, Hoffner said, “Yes, Hans. I saw. He sniffed at it.” Hoffner pulled his collar up to his neck: how difficult was it to remember a scarf?

  “You see,” said Fichte, his coat still unbuttoned. “I have an instinct for these things.”

  “An instinct. That must be it. Then tell me, Nostradamus, where are we heading next?”

  “KaDeWe’s.” Fichte spoke with absolute certainty. He brushed a bit of moisture from his nose. “To see about the gloves.” Hoffner nearly stopped in his tracks as Fichte continued, “I checked on the body this morning—number five, in the morgue. The gloves were missing. The Polpo doesn’t know about them, so I assumed you’d taken them. KaDeWe is the best place in town for lace.”

  And just like that, thought Hoffner, Fichte was actually becoming a detective.

  “A darker beige and a powdered blue,” said the man behind the counter. He stared across at the woman who looked to be incapable of making a decision. She pulled the glove snug onto her
hand and gazed at it in the mirror. She flexed her fingers and then reangled her head. All the while, the man stood with a sliver of smile sewn onto his lips. After nearly half a minute he glanced furtively at Hoffner, who had edged closer to the glass. “Just another minute, mein Herr,” he said impatiently, but with no change in his expression. “Thank you, mein Herr.”

  In his finely pressed suit, the man looked like the perfect twin of every other clerk on the floor, or perhaps the perfect “light” twin, as they seemed to come in three distinct shades: blond, brunette, and gray. The creases in his trousers were another nod to his perfection, as was the slip of blue handkerchief that peeped out from his breast pocket. The delicacy of his hands was also something remarkable, pale and soft as they graced the waves of satin.

  “You will find none more exquisite in the city, Madame,” he said, equally transfixed by the gloves. “Feel them against your skin. Lovely.”

  It was clear from Fichte’s expression that he had never been inside Kaufhaus des Westens, or KaDeWe, as it had come to be known: the high temple of capitalism, undaunted by threats from either socialists or shortages. Utterly self-assured, the place was alive with consumption, and Fichte seemed unable to take it all in fast enough. There was the endless sea of scarves and blouses, soaps and colognes, each department with its own distinct color and feel. Even the size of the clerks seemed to change from one area to the next: long, elegant men to clothe the customer, squatter ones to perfume her, thick-necked boys for her sporting equipment. And somewhere in the distant reaches, men’s ties and shirts filled the glass-topped rows; they, however, were lost behind a wall of ever-moving flesh. Above it all, the din from countless conversations crested in an orchestral echo that, to Fichte’s ear, sounded as if it were tuning. He had played the violin as a boy, poorly, but had always enjoyed that collective search for pitch.

  Looking up, he followed a network of wires that crisscrossed the vaulted space; the lines were only a stepladder’s climb from him, but they seemed to soar high above as they rose to a squadron of desks on the mezzanine level: this was where all transactions were consummated; money was never kept at the counters. In a constant whir of tramlike efficiency, tiny boxes whizzed overhead, carrying receipts and payments back and forth. This had been the way at KaDeWe since its opening; modern mechanisms had yet to infiltrate. Fichte had to wonder if a pluck on one of the cables might produce a perfect A-flat.

  “Oh, well,” said the woman as she removed the glove. “Not today.” She thanked the clerk and moved off. The man nodded politely, replaced the two sets of gloves beneath the glass, and then turned to Hoffner and Fichte. He needed only a glance to take stock of the two men: Fichte was still gazing upward. It was enough for the clerk to know that his frustrations would continue.

  “And now, mein Herr,” he said to Hoffner with icy civility. “How can we be of assistance today?”

  Hoffner pulled from his pocket a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. He opened it and placed the contents on the counter. “I’m wondering,” he said, “where I might get a pair like these for my wife.” The voice and attitude were unlike anything Fichte had ever seen or heard coming from Hoffner before. There was something almost apologetic, even puny, to him. It was an astonishing transformation. The wonder of KaDeWe instantly faded to the background.

  “For your wife,” said the man, as he glanced indifferently at the muddied gloves. “Yes, mein Herr.”

  “The dog got into the bureau,” said Hoffner sheepishly. “Made a complete mess of them. All my fault.”

  “Yes,” repeated the man. He took in a long breath, then picked up one of the gloves. Almost at once his demeanor changed. He quickly brought the glove up to his face and began to examine it closely.

  “Is there—something wrong?” said Hoffner.

  The man looked across at him. “Oh, no, no, no, mein Herr,” he said, now the model of fawning servility. “It’s just—I couldn’t tell the remarkable quality, what with all the staining.”

  “I see,” said Hoffner with a bland smile.

  The clerk continued to pick his way through the lace. “Wonderful,” he said. “May I ask where mein Herr originally purchased them?”

  “A gift,” said Hoffner. “From an aunt, I believe.”

  “I see,” said the man. He placed the glove on the counter and pointed behind him to two large volumes. “May I?” he said.

  Hoffner nodded his assent.

  The man pulled the second of the books from the shelf and, placing it on the counter, began to leaf through. It was clear he knew exactly what he was looking for. “It’s an extremely intricate pattern, mein Herr,” he said as he continued to flip through the pages. “Quite rare. We don’t carry it ourselves, but we’d be happy to order it for you. Ah, yes,” he said, stopping on a page. “Here it is.” He flipped the book around so that Hoffner could see the drawing. “Mechlin Rseau de Bruges,” said the man as he watched Hoffner scan the page. The clerk then picked up the glove and began to illustrate for Fichte. “It’s like the Brussels mesh,” he said as he dusted off the palm. “But here you see the four threads are plaited only twice, instead of four times, on the two sides, while the two threads are twisted twice, instead of once, on the four sides.” The clerk stared at the glove with almost spiritual devotion; it was as if Hoffner and Fichte had disappeared. “Marvelous craftsmanship.”

  Fichte had no idea what the man was saying; he nodded nonetheless.

  “It’s Belgian?” said Hoffner, looking up from the book.

  “Yes, mein Herr. And made only in Bruges. As I said, we can order it for you.”

  “From this firm, here,” said Hoffner, pointing to a name on the page.

  “Edgar Troimpel et Fils. Yes, mein Herr.”

  “Do you make such orders quite often?” said Hoffner.

  “All the time, mein Herr.”

  “To this particular firm in Belgium?”

  The man seemed momentarily confused. “Well—no, mein Herr, but our couriers are excellent.”

  “No, of course,” said Hoffner. “I’m just wondering if you’ve placed an order with them in, say, the last few months?”

  Again, the clerk seemed slightly put off. “Not that I recall, mein Herr. Not with the war. But that shouldn’t be a problem at all now. They know us quite well. Since before the war.”

  Hoffner knew he had hit the point of retreat. Clerks like this wanted to be coddled, not prodded. Still, Hoffner needed a little more information. He smiled and took a final, harmless swipe. “Of course,” he said. “I imagine KaDeWe is the only store in Berlin they work with.”

  As if on cue, the man’s face tightened. “No, mein Herr.” His words were now clipped. “I’m sure Wertheim’s or one of the lesser stores has contacts with the firm. I can’t address the quality of their service—”

  “No, of course not,” said Hoffner with a penitent smile. “I was only inquiring.” He decided to throw the man a bone. “Rest assured that when I order them, I will order only from the best and most respected. KaDeWe.”

  The man softened as he beamed. “That’s very kind of you, mein Herr, and may I say, I think a wise choice. Shall I get the order form?”

  “I’ll need two pairs of the gloves.” Hoffner saw the Reichsmarks dancing in the man’s eyes. “The second for my sister. Unfortunately, I haven’t brought her size with me. I didn’t want to get her hopes up if I didn’t know I could find them. You understand.”

  “Absolutely, mein Herr.”

  “You are here until—”

  “Six o’clock, mein Herr.”

  “Then I will be back before then.” Hoffner retrieved the package.

  “Excellent, mein Herr.”

  “Come, Reiner,” Hoffner said to Fichte with sudden determination. “We mustn’t keep your bowel doctor waiting.”

  Three minutes later, Hoffner ordered two coffees before making his way over to a table and Fichte, who had settled in by one of the caf’s outdoor heaters: the long, iron-encased lamp wa
s working at full capacity to create a pocket of toasted air. Ten or so other lamps littered the space under the wide awning; even so, most of the clientele had opted for seats inside. Hoffner, on the other hand, liked being out on the street; he liked the occasional spray of rain that seemed to defy all logic by attacking from the side and not from above; most of all, he liked that Fichte was getting the brunt of it. Across the avenue, KaDeWe loomed like an enormous troll.

  “All right,” said Fichte. “So, now that we’re sitting down, why the performance, riveting as it was, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar?” For the first time, the title seemed to carry less than its usual reverence: Hoffner liked the change. He tossed his hat onto an empty chair.

  “Riveting?” he said. “You’re too kind.”

  “Yes. My bowels and I are great aficionados.”

  Hoffner laughed a nice full laugh. “Your expression was priceless.”

  Fichte bowed his head once submissively. “I’m glad we could be so amusing.”

  “Very. Actually, Victor once had his—” Hoffner stopped himself. He saw the anticipation in Fichte’s eyes. There was nothing threatening in it; still, Hoffner felt a moment’s betrayal. He waited, then explained, “The Polpo, Hans.” Hoffner took a napkin and began to wipe off the mud that had splattered onto his pant leg. “If I bring out my badge, our clerk can tell anyone nosing about that two Kripomen have been in there asking about a pair of gloves. We don’t need that kind of attention.”

  “But the Polpo wasn’t interested in the gloves. If they were, they would have taken them.”

  “True.” Hoffner was struggling with a particularly resilient stain. “Except they weren’t interested because they didn’t know about them.” Hoffner finished with the napkin and tossed it next to his hat. “I’ve had the gloves with me since we brought the body in yesterday.”

  “You’ve had the gloves?” This was new information to Fichte. “Why?”

  “Last night wasn’t the first time someone’s gone through our evidence.” The coffees arrived. “Don’t look so surprised, Hans.” Hoffner took a sip; he had expected better from a place like this, especially in this part of town: he could taste the chicory. “It just happened to be the first time they were caught.”