He pulled back the tarp. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said. The sudden slap of chilled air forced a muted grunt from Fichte. Hoffner stood. “Try to stay awake this time.”
Cramp in his leg forced Hoffner to take the steps one at a time. Keeping to the shadows, he peered out in both directions. The street was empty; even the prostitutes were staying in. Hoffner pulled down the brim of his hat and headed out into the lamplight.
He played the drunk during his rounds. The shuffling feet, the bobbing head, the single hand held out along the shop fronts for balance, were not an uncommon sight this time of night on Mulackstrasse. In fact, on his last circuit, Hoffner had nearly bumped into the genuine article: a weaving body had appeared from a side street, doing its best against the rain and wind and its own inebriation. One of the boys had actually mistaken him for Hoffner and popped out. The boy had been too late to see his mistake. Caught, he had done what any boy in his position would have done: he had tossed the man for everything he was worth. Hoffner had pretended to retch during the performance. The man, to his credit, had suffered it all with a drunk’s affability. He had even managed a pat on Hoffner’s back—“It’ll pass, my friend, it’ll pass”—as he continued down the street. This time, Hoffner walked alone.
Halfway down the block, he propped himself up against a wall as if he were catching his breath. “Anything?” he said quietly.
The boy had learned his lesson; he remained within the shadows. “Not a peep, Eminence.”
This one had a sense of humor. “No one to clean out this time?”
“Not my cock-up.”
“No choice, was it?”
“That’s right.”
Hoffner bent over as if he were about to retch. “But you’ll be splitting the proceeds with your mates, yes?”
“Splitting the what?”
“Just make sure Franz gets his cut.”
There was a silence. “Yeah. All right.”
Hoffner spat a few times, then moved off. He turned the corner.
The western side of the building was no less desolate. Another six or so entrances waited silently under the lamplight. Hoffner knew that they had been lucky thus far. Lamps had a tendency to burn out at the oddest of times in this part of town. Mulackstrasse in shadow was one thing; in total darkness it was suicide.
He checked in with the other boys, two more lookouts with nothing to report. He dropped a pack of cigarettes in the shadows at each of the posts: something to keep the boys awake. He then headed back, the sound of his own footfalls a solitary echo on the street. He was tired and wet. Maybe he could take a nap, let Hans earn his pay? Not much chance of that.
It was only when he reached the stairwell that Hoffner heard the scurrying of feet from behind him. He turned to see little Franz running up. The boy’s expression told him everything.
With newfound energy, Hoffner whispered into the shadows. “We’ve got him, Hans.” He waited to hear the tarp being pulled back before running out to meet the boy. Hoffner no longer felt the damp.
“Where?” he said as the two met in the middle of the street.
Franz spoke through gasps. “Just now.” He motioned back to the corner. “The fourth entryway.”
“Alone?”
The boy nodded.
“With a trunk?”
Again, the boy nodded.
Hoffner had heard nothing, no scraping of metal on cobblestone. How had Wouters maneuvered the trunk? There was no time to worry about that now. Without another word, Hoffner raced off. He was at the corner—Fichte and Franz chasing after him—when he saw five or six of the boys gathered at one of the far entryways, each of them pressed up against the door. Hoffner ran up to them.
“He’s gone down to the pit rooms,” whispered one of the boys. “Heard him go down. We can take him, if you want.”
Hoffner pulled his Mauser one-four-eight from his belt and tried to catch his breath. The pistol had been with him since 1912. He had fired it twice in the last seven years, once to test the action on the trigger, the other to salute Knig in a drunken farewell on some Tyrolean hillside. The lettering on the gripstrap marking—KripoDZ. 148—still shone like new.
At the sight of the gun, the boys edged back. Even Fichte was momentarily unnerved. Hoffner said, “No one takes him.” His breathing was still heavy. “You see him leave the building, you start shouting. You don’t go near him, you keep him in sight. Understood?” Fichte nodded along with the boys. “Get out your pistol, Hans.” Fichte did as he was told. Hoffner then pulled open the door and headed in.
The short corridor was lit like an interrogation room: stark light bounced off cracked walls and tile, and the smell of cabbage filled the air, a sourness seasoned with urine. At the stairs, Hoffner stopped. Somewhere above, someone was taking a nice beating; higher still, an old woman laughed or cried: even at this hour, the sounds of muted desperation trickled down. Hoffner put up a hand. Fichte stayed where he was, and Hoffner took two steps down to listen.
He heard it almost at once, its incongruity drawing him farther down the steps: a faint if high-pitched squeal was repeating in perfect intervals as it grew more distant. It was too even, too precise, and therefore completely out of place inside these walls. Hoffner suddenly realized what it was. He was following the rotation of a rusted wheel. An image popped into his head. The trunk was being moved on a porter’s wheel, the sort to be found at any train station. The marks at the sites had not been formed by the dragging of a trunk, but by a wheel pressing down into the mud. The weight of the bodies had simply flattened and thus widened its imprint.
Hoffner continued to listen. This was the sound of Wouters transporting his final victim. With a quick wave for Fichte, Hoffner started down.
The lower reaches of the tenement spread out in a warren of narrow corridors, bare bulbs dotting the walls, only here they were placed too far apart to create continuous light. Checkerboard patches led off in all directions. The infamous pit rooms—where pipes and coal stoves bristled with heat, and where only the most wretched took refuge—appeared at equally disjointed intervals. Half of the doors had gone missing for firewood. The rest clung to rotting hinges, or leaned out menacingly into the corridors, but they did nothing to keep the swelter from infiltrating. The air here was oppressive. Hoffner felt the perspiration forming in the creases of his neck as he heard Fichte begin to labor for breath.
The squeal called to them from one of the corridors, and Hoffner, his pistol held chest-high, moved toward it at an even pace, following the twists and turns, just fast enough to draw them closer to their man. He could feel Wouters’s presence, the sound of his footsteps slowly growing more distinct. Wouters was moving rhythmically, easily, uninterrupted—no idea that he was being followed. For the second time in a matter of days, Hoffner felt the sharp pull of anticipation.
And then, without warning, Fichte let go with a choked gasp. Dumbstruck, Hoffner turned to silence him, but it was too late. Fichte was doing all he could to stifle the seizing in his lungs. It was as if his throat had collapsed in on itself.
Hoffner turned back to the empty corridor. The squeal had stopped. Silence, and then a sudden crash and the sound of darting feet. Hoffner looked back at Fichte. The boy was on his knee, sucking desperately on his inhaler.
Hoffner ran, forcing himself to move faster, his hand sliding along the chipped walls as he propelled himself forward. Wouters’s steps were faint, but they were there. Taking a turn, Hoffner nearly fell over the abandoned trunk. It lay on its side and was blocking most of the corridor. For an instant he imagined what lay inside; putting it from his mind, he clambered over the wood and metal—still slick from the rain—and continued after Wouters.
Whether it was the nights out in the cold, or the sudden heat, or simply his own incapacity, Hoffner felt himself giving way. He strained for breath. He felt the stress in his legs and chest, his throat ready to explode, and still he pushed himself on. Wouters was disappearing into the endless corridors.
He was slipping out of Hoffner’s hands, and all Hoffner felt was his own desperate failure. All of this would start again. All of it. And there would be nothing he could do to stop it.
A single shot rang out, and Hoffner froze. He planted his hand against the wall for support, and tried to quiet his breathing long enough to locate its origin. A second shot was fired, and Hoffner began to move. The echo hung in the air and led him first left, then along a corridor until he saw a shadow move beyond the open door of one of the pit rooms. He tightened his grip on his pistol, drew up to the door and, bracing himself, shouldered his way in.
What he saw was mind-numbing. A small body lay perfectly still in the half-light. Hoffner recognized it at once. It was Wouters. He was dead. A single bullet had entered his left thigh. Another had cut deep into his chest. He looked remarkably peaceful.
A board moved from across the room and, no less dazed, Hoffner looked over to see Kommissar Ernst Tamshik crouched down, rummaging through scrap wood.
“No body,” said Tamshik as he got to his feet.
Hoffner was still catching his breath as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “What are you doing here?” he said in a near whisper.
“He’s not much to look at, is he?” This was a different Tamshik, one intent on police work. The bullying and sneers were nowhere in sight. “All this trouble for so little a man. Remarkable.”
Hoffner finally caught his breath. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.
Tamshik continued to scan the room. “Looking for a body, Kommissar.”
Hoffner tried to focus. Instinctively he pointed back to the corridor, toward the trunk, but stopped himself. “How did you know he would be coming down here?”
Tamshik peered over at Hoffner. “You didn’t think you’d be the only one to find a way inside his head, did you Kommissar?” The smirk returned. “Typical Kripo arrogance.”
Hoffner’s mind was spinning. A minute ago, he had thought he had lost Wouters. Now he had the man’s carcass in front of him, compliments of the Polpo. Hoffner was hard-pressed to say which was making him feel worse.
“You shot him?” said Hoffner, still trying to clear his mind.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tamshik holstered his gun. “Because I thought he would get away, Kommissar.”
Again, Hoffner glanced out at the corridor. That made no sense. He thought out loud. “I was behind him. You must have been directly in his path. There was nowhere else for him to go. Except in here.” Hoffner again looked across at Tamshik. It suddenly struck him that Tamshik had shown no surprise at his own appearance. It was as if Tamshik had been waiting for him. Things suddenly began to come clearer. Hoffner’s mind slowed. “Unless you thought he’d overpower you, Kommissar?” Hoffner’s tone sharpened. “A man of his tremendous size. Is that it?”
Tamshik stared blankly. “He was a maniac. I didn’t know what to expect.”
Hoffner returned the stare. “And the shot to his thigh wasn’t enough to stop him?”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe what you like.”
“You were waiting for him, weren’t you?”
For just an instant, Tamshik’s eyes narrowed. “The man’s dead, Kommissar. You have a strange way of thanking someone for doing your job.”
Hoffner felt a sudden urge to step over and crack a fist across Tamshik’s face. Luckily, Fichte poked his head through the doorway at that moment. Hoffner could hear the wheezing in his breath.
“I heard shots,” said Fichte, catching his breath. He noticed Wouters. “Oh, God.” Fichte laughed nervously through his gasps. “You got him. Good Christ. We got him.”
“Yes, Herr Assistent,” said Tamshik from the far corner. “You got him.”
It was only then that Fichte saw Tamshik. He nearly jumped. “Kommissar Tamshik? What . . . ?” Fichte looked to Hoffner for an answer.
“Your Kriminal-Kommissar has gotten his man,” said Tamshik with mock admiration.
This only seemed to rattle Fichte further. “Yes,” he said uneasily.
Hoffner kept his eyes on Tamshik. “I shot no one, Hans.”
Tamshik said, “It’s a proud day for the Kripo, gentlemen.”
“‘A proud. . . ?’” murmured Fichte. Again, he looked to Hoffner. “I don’t understand.”
Tamshik spoke to Hoffner: “Think of all the money and time saved, Kommissar. No need for a trial. No reason to parade out your madman. And all because of your heroics. Well done.”
Hoffner had no idea what game Tamshik was playing. “Who were you pulling the trigger for, Tamshik? You’re not this clever. Who sent you down here?”
“Don’t worry, Kommissar,” said Tamshik with his accustomed venom. “This one’s all yours. No one needs to know about all the help you’ve gotten from the Polpo.”
Hoffner had heard enough. He started for Tamshik, but Fichte, still not knowing what was going on, had the good sense to hold him back. “He’s not worth the trouble, Nikolai,” he said in a whisper.
Slowly, Tamshik drew up to them. “Your case is closed, Herr Kommissar. Congratulations.” Hoffner managed to pull his arm free. “I wouldn’t do that,” said Tamshik coldly. He stared a moment longer, then nodded to Fichte. “Assistent.” Tamshik then stepped over Wouters’s body and headed out into the corridor.
When the footsteps had faded, Fichte released Hoffner’s arm. “What the hell just happened in here?” he said.
Hoffner remained motionless. He stared down at the body. Wouters had nothing to tell them, not now. Tamshik had made certain of that. Slowly Hoffner walked to the back of the room and slammed his hand into the wall.
“It is a bit odd.”
Kriminaldirektor Präger sat uncomfortably behind his desk. His skin was still pasty from sleep. Polpo Direktor Weigland sat across from him. It had been nearly twenty years since either of them had seen the Alex this early in the morning.
“I don’t know what he’s so upset about,” said Weigland. He turned to Hoffner, who was standing at the window. “Nikolai. The case is finished. Tomorrow the papers will call you a hero.”
Hoffner continued to stare out. The dull gray of pre-dawn hung over the square like an unwashed towel: it only reminded him of how tired he was. “I’ll ask one more time, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner as he turned to the two men at the desk. “What was Kommissar Tamshik doing in the pit rooms of the Ochsenhof?”
Weigland threw up his hands as he looked across at Präger. “There’s no convincing him, Edmund. This is a gift horse. I don’t see what the problem is.”
“I understand,” said Präger: for the first time he was actually holding his own with the Polpo. “Kommissar Tamshik obviously had his reasons. We’re not interested in Polpo business. But you can understand the Kriminal-Kommissar’s concern.” Präger glanced over at Tamshik. The man stood unnervingly still. Fichte, by comparison, looked almost pitiful by his side. “That said,” Präger continued, “I think we can all take satisfaction in having eliminated this problem.”
Hoffner started in. “That’s not the point, Herr Kriminaldirektor—”
Präger put up a hand. “The bodies are here. They’ll be here tomorrow. Whatever else can wait until then.”
Hoffner disagreed. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“You’re tired, Kriminal-Kommissar.” Präger was telling him, not consoling him. “You should take tomorrow at home. With your family. Take two days. The rest can wait.”
Hoffner stared across at Präger. There were any number of things he thought to say, but his mind was a jumble. Exhaustion was getting the better of him. More than that, he knew Präger was right. This wasn’t the time, nor the audience to press things any further. “Fine, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”
“Good,” said Weigland, his relief all too apparent.
Hoffner said, “Just so long as no one touches anything. Nothing happens until I see the bodies.”
>
“Of course,” Weigland said eagerly. “Naturally.” He wanted this done. “Everything stays exactly as it is tonight. No question.”
Hoffner ignored Weigland. He kept his eyes on Präger.
Präger said, “It’s still your case, Kriminal-Kommissar. Nothing gets touched.”
Hoffner nodded. He then looked over at Tamshik. “And I want that man nowhere near my evidence.”
Tamshik stared straight ahead as if he had heard nothing. Weigland spun back to Präger.
“Edmund, really!” Weigland’s exasperation had returned. “That tone was completely uncalled for.”
Hoffner said, “I think we’re beyond protocol, Herr Direktor.”
“We’re done here, Nikolai,” said Präger, ending any further discussion. Hoffner had overstepped the line. “You did well with this. Take your two days.” He glanced over at Fichte. “You as well, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.”
Fichte perked up. He blinked quickly several times. “Thank you, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”
There was nothing else to be said. The room became uncomfortably still. Finally, Hoffner picked up his hat and started toward the door. Fichte moved to join him, but Hoffner continued past him. “You get home safe, Hans, all right?” Fichte had hoped for more. Hoffner, however, was not in the mood.
Out on the Alex, Hoffner pulled up his coat collar. The air felt somehow kinder; it was of little comfort. Wouters’s eyes were still with him, their silence like a last stroke of the knife.
Hoffner peered up into the first light. Small specks of snow were swirling overhead. Odd, he thought. By nightfall, Berlin would be under a blanket of white.
PART TWO
FOUR
K
They made them into heroes.
The announcement came on Friday, the day of Hoffner’s scheduled return. Rumors had been circulating, but nothing had been confirmed. “You don’t rush these things, Nikolai.” Präger was famous for his timing. “You have to let the city set the tone.” Evidently the city wanted Friday. And so, with the hysteria at just the right pitch, Präger presented Berlin with her new saviors.
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