Once again the Herr Major glanced down the page. “Yes, Herr Inspector,” he said without so much as a nod for his clerk. “Munich recruits.” With a twitch of his fingers, he dismissed the boy.
Hoffner said, “May I, Herr Major?”
It was the Division Lists, broken down into regiments, battalions, and units, the last of which were alphabetized. Urlicher had been a member of the Liebregiment, Second Battalion, First Unit. Several lines above his name was an entry for a Second Lieutenant Erich Oster. Joachim Manstein, however, was not to be found. Hoffner casually flipped through to see if Manstein might appear in another unit or even battalion, but a quick scan turned up nothing. He knew anything more than a perfunctory glance would have caught the Herr Major’s attention. Hoffner brought out his pen and wrote down the names in Urlicher’s unit. He then closed the book and handed it back.
“The names you’ve written,” said the Herr Major. “Some of these men remain active members of the regiment, Herr Inspector. I’m correct in thinking that they will not be a part of your investigation?”
Hoffner pocketed his pen. “Of course, Herr Major.”
With a nod, the two men stood. The Herr Major said, “The man is dead by now, Herr Inspector. The disease is crippling and ultimately fatal. The bones become as brittle as paper. As you said, he is no longer our responsibility.”
Hoffner understood. The work of Regimental Affairs was now devoted to toting up the dead like so much excess inventory. Urlicher’s discharge had saved them valuable space; they were not intent on finding a spot for him now. “Then we won’t need to see each other again, will we, Herr Major?”
At the door, Hoffner tipped his hat to the clerk. The boy almost forgot himself with a smile.
Back at his office, Hoffner wrote out a short list of names: Urlicher, Oster, and Manstein, Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf—Jogiches had mentioned “Prussian business concerns,” so why not include them?—and for good measure, Braun, Tamshik, and Hermannsohn; Weigland, he knew, was not clever enough to merit inclusion. At the bottom of the page, he wrote the words “Rosa” and “Wouters.” He also jotted down dates next to each of the men’s names, indicating when they might have become involved, or at least when they had shown some connection to Rosa and Wouters. How far back that went was impossible to say.
The first three had conspired to set Wouters loose on Berlin starting in June of last year, but to what end? To get rid of Rosa without a trace of political involvement, by having it appear that she was just one more victim of Wouters’s madness? Why not simply do the killings themselves, if it was all a ploy? Why dredge up Wouters? If Urlicher, Oster, and Manstein had in fact been working in conjunction with any of the last three on the list, why was the Polpo holding on to her body? Why set up Wouters, unleash him, and then keep Rosa hidden? Jogiches’s “obvious” answer made sense only in hindsight. Worse, Hoffner had nothing to say about the three names in the middle. The design of the Rosenthaler station and the missing engineer—Herr Tben/Sazonov—pointed to the construction company of Ganz-Neurath, but Berlin money linked to a Munich regiment not only seemed a stretch, it was completely out of character: there were no heights steep enough from which a Prussian could look down his nose at a Bavarian. The timing there was also troubling: when had Herr Tben/Sazonov made his alterations so as to give Wouters his ideal surroundings?
The only recourse Hoffner had was to track down Oster and Manstein, which only confirmed everything Jogiches had been saying: Munich.
Hoffner reached over to telephone the duty desk for a train schedule and saw little Franz standing in the doorway. It was unclear how long the boy had been there. “Something I can do for you, Franz?”
The boy was oddly hesitant. “A note’s come in for you, Herr Oberkommissar. To the duty desk.”
“Well, give it here.” Franz produced the small, familiar-looking envelope. “Same man with the beard?” Hoffner sliced open the top as Franz nodded.
Odd, thought Hoffner. Jogiches was hardly a man to repeat himself. “Anything on Herr Kvatsch?” He pulled out the card. He had given up hope at this point: Kvatsch was playing it far better than he had anticipated. Still, it was good to ask; keep the boy on his toes.
“A few more times with Herr Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Groener,” said Franz, “but nothing more, Herr Oberkommissar.”
Groener, thought Hoffner. More dirty work for Jogiches. He made a mental note to sit down with the detective sergeant. Over a whiskey. It was the only substance he could think of strong enough to counteract the stench.
The card was the same quality as before, except this time Jogiches had chosen a typewriter. There was an address, the word “Urgent,” and the signature “K.”
Hoffner looked up. Franz was peering across at him with surprising interest. “Yes?” said Hoffner.
For just a moment the boy looked as if he had been caught out. “Well . . .” he said, “I’ve been following Herr Kvatsch around for you, Herr Oberkommissar, and for a couple of weeks now.” Franz let the words linger.
Hoffner understood. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a few pfennigs. He placed the coins on the far side of the desk and said, “Never be afraid to ask for what you’re owed, Franz.”
The boy walked over and took the money. “Yes, Herr Oberkommissar.”
Hoffner knew there was no point in keeping after Kvatsch now. Even so, he said, “Ten pfennigs a week for more information, all right?”
This seemed fair. Franz nodded. He pocketed his wages and headed out the door.
Forty-five minutes later, Hoffner stepped out of a cab and into the overwhelming stench of hacked flesh. Fichte was still nowhere to be found, but the note had been clear: urgent. Hoffner would manage Fichte later.
The address from Jogiches was out in the slaughter-yard district, about as far east as one could go: killing of this kind was too much even for the folks in Prenzlauer Berg; they wanted it out of their backyards, as well. The whole area was little more than a series of slick cobblestone alleys and dirty gray walls topped by barbed wire, although the cows and hogs and whatnot were hardly there long enough to merit the precaution. Someone had once joked that the wires had been set in place to keep the rest of Berlin from sneaking up and stealing a few pieces of meat. Given the state of things now, no one was laughing.
Oddly enough, it was the one place in town that reminded Hoffner of his father’s Berlin, where the smell of manure outpaced the stink of automobile petrol, and where the lazy hoof-fall of an overworked nag replaced the coiled snap of a tram wire from above. This was a world of wagons and pushcarts, the red and yellow spokes of the slaughterhouse two-wheelers as common a sight as a Daimler in the Westend. No amount of snow could cover the grit that was here; a constant plume of locomotive smoke rose from the Belt Line Railway yards—livestock rolling in from East Prussia and Pomerania and Brandenburg—soaking the flakes in soot before they had a chance to make it to the ground. It hardly mattered, though: there was nothing to hide out here. It was killing, pure and simple.
Hoffner found the building, a worn sign for MECK UND SONNE above the door. The shortages had forced some of the smaller houses to consolidate, a nice word for shutting down the works and letting go fifty men. The surrounding buildings had fallen victim, as well. Hard to imagine something more depressing than a row of slaughterhouses, but here it was, a row of abandoned ones.
The lock on the door had been jimmied. Hoffner wondered if Jogiches had recognized the irony in his choice of lodging; then again, maybe a man as good as dead could tempt the fates?
Hoffner stepped inside and was struck at once by the taste of raw meat in the air. The building was ice cold, but the chill had done nothing to minimize the rancid remnants of Herr Meck’s once thriving business. Hoffner realized he was standing inside an enormous hall, brick wall rising to a ceiling some twenty meters above. A grim light poured in from a series of windows that stretched around the uppermost reaches of the walls, but it did little more than cast
odd shadows: at ground level, the space was a collection of amorphous shapes in black and gray. One of them began to move toward him, and Hoffner stepped over to meet it. “Herr Jogiches,” he said. The next thing he knew, Hoffner was feeling the ripping pain of a well-placed boot to his ribs.
He doubled over instantly, his nausea only slightly more acute than his surprise. Hoffner had no time to react to either as a second blow landed on the back of his neck, a gloved hand from somewhere behind making its presence known. Hoffner’s face slammed to the floor, the echo of his own stifled breath ringing in the hall. He tried to reach for his gun, but he had never been terribly good at any of this. The blows came more rapidly now, fists and boots with excruciating precision. Hoffner was doing all he could to curl into himself, but it was all too vicious and determined to permit any kind of retreat. A first taste of blood dripped to his lips as a thick set of fingers ripped into his hair and jerked his head up. Hoffner choked out a cough, only to smell the breath of an unwashed mouth a few centimeters from him.
“No more questions,” whispered the voice. “No more late-night meetings. No more visits to the file rooms at the GS. You understand? Step off, Herr Inspector.”
Hoffner did everything he could to answer: he twitched his head once.
“Good.” The man held him there for several more seconds before releasing. Hoffner’s head fell to the cobblestone with a compressed smack even as the smell of foul breath continued to linger over him. The man was hovering. Hoffner tried to open his eyes, but there was no point.
“No more,” said the voice.
There was a last kick to his kidneys, but Hoffner was too far gone to feel it. He heard the sound of receding steps, sensed a sudden shock of light, but he was out cold by the time the door slammed shut.
Half an hour later, his eyes opened.
The pain was a constant throbbing, though the stiffness in his chest was far more of a problem. He tried not to breathe too deeply: every intake was like a cracking of bone. Swallowing, too, had become impossible, no saliva to be had. It was several minutes before he found the strength to push himself up to his knees, and, at no better than a crawl, he made his way over to the near wall and began to prop himself up. At least they had left him his legs. Hunched over and holding to the wall, Hoffner forced himself to the door and out into the light.
The sudden brightness brought his hand up to his face, the reflex a mistake, and his entire back arched in pain. Stifling a groan, Hoffner spotted a series of water taps sticking out from the wall of the building, and making his way over, tried his luck with the first in line: miraculously, a stream of cold water began to flow. He gingerly placed his lips under the tap and drank. Almost at once the ache in his head lifted; it was clear that the real damage had gone on below his neck. Stretching his arm to the ground, he grabbed for a ball of sooted snow and placed it on the back of his neck. The sense of relief was instantaneous even as a pool of soiled water collected at his collar. Slowly he stood upright. The uncoiling sent a rush of pain through his ribs and lower back while he tried to assess the damage. They had broken nothing; better still, they had left no marks for anyone to see. Save for the small bump just above his temple, where his head had smacked against the stone, the bruising lay hidden below his shirt; his face had gone unscathed. Hoffner had to appreciate the professional quality of the work.
Step off, Herr Inspector. And so polite, he thought. He dropped the snow and reached into his jacket pocket for his flask. The whiskey was wonderfully warm and immediately went to work. Four or five long pulls, and he felt fit enough to push himself up from the wall. It was only then, with his head clearing, that he began to consider the note. Someone had played him, someone who had known about K. More astounding, someone who had seen him at the Office of the General Staff this morning. No more visits to the file rooms . . .
He was getting close, and he was still alive. There had to be something in that.
Hoffner found a taxi and told the man to drive. In his condition, he was not that uncommon a fare for this part of town, although four o’clock might have been a bit early for it. Even so, the man showed no surprise when Hoffner went back to the whiskey—his neck had begun to tighten—and by the time they arrived in Kreuzberg, Hoffner could move through the courtyard without drawing too much attention to himself.
Mercifully, the flat was empty. Wednesdays Martha spent with Eva: Herr Doktor Keubel taught at some dental college and gave his staff the afternoon off. Hoffner slowly got undressed and ran a bath. He noticed some nice discoloring under his right arm, which extended to his lower back, where it looked as if a thousand tiny veins had exploded below the skin. He had had worse—always in the company of Knig—but never as a threat. Hoffner recalled the early days when Knig’s quick thinking had helped them run down some of the city’s more unsavory types; or, rather, when Knig had relied on his own unsavoriness to expedite matters. The two had always given as good as they got, or at least Knig had. Hoffner still had trouble with his wrist from one of those encounters. Sitting back in the steaming water, he laughed at the thought of it, and his entire left side cramped.
It was a foolishness he had long since left behind. Why, then, he thought, was he now no less intent on following the case to Munich? Why invite the chance for another beating, or worse? It wasn’t ego. He knew he had nothing to prove to men like Braun; more important, he had nothing to prove to himself on their behalf. Crime had never been a game of one-upmanship for Hoffner. It was why he had never sent in that application to the fourth floor, and why his father had never forgiven him for it. No, there was nothing to prove to those living or dead.
Nor was there anything particularly noble in it. Hoffner readily admitted that he had never gone in for abstractions such as justice. It was simpler than that: action-reaction, choice-consequence. He left the moral scales to men like Jogiches. The only deeper meaning he sought was in seeing something through to its end, and the satisfaction he found when he had moved beyond it: fresh start, new map. The rest of his world had never been as clear-cut or as accommodating, and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that Munich remained worth pursuing.
A draft of cold air blew in from the corridor, and Hoffner heard the front door closing. The water had grown tepid and he waited for Martha’s voice. “Nicki?” she shouted. “Are you home?” He had left his clothes in a line along the corridor: a direct path. The bathroom door squeaked open and she appeared. “What a lovely life you lead,” she said as she stayed by the door. She noticed the bruising on his chest, and her expression hardened. “What happened?”
Hoffner did his best to prop himself up. “Nothing,” he said. The water had done wonders, but not enough to make the movement less than strained. “I fell on some ice.”
She caught sight of his lower rib cage. “You didn’t fall, Nicki.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
There was a sudden sadness in her eyes, and Hoffner knew instantly where her mind had gone to: an angry husband or lover and just retribution. It was unclear, however, whether her pity was meant for him or for herself.
She let it go. “I’ve got some ointment,” she said as she started down the corridor. “Dry yourself off. We’ll put you back together.”
She was remarkably deft with the bandages, knowing exactly where to place them, how to press them up and around his ribs for support, and, except for the smell, the ointment was equally soothing. He had forgotten just how good she was with all of this.
“You and Victor gave me lots of practice,” she said as she tied off the last of the cloth. “How’s the wrist?”
He extended his hand to test it and, for just an instant, saw her tense as if she thought he might be reaching for her. He slowly brought his hand back and said vaguely, “Good. It’s good.”
She placed the kit in the drawer. “Are you here for dinner?”
“You were right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have gotten myself involved with them. They’re the kind who li
ke to use their boots.”
Whatever else she was feeling, Martha could never hide her concern. “Weigland’s men did this?”
“Best guess. They’d prefer it if I let the case go.”
She became more insistent. “And you’re going to do what they say, yes, Nicki?”
Hoffner marveled at her capacity to care for him, not for her own sake or for the boys’, but for him alone. He had never understood it. He imagined it made her feel weak, but he knew it was anything but that. Her only weakness was that she lacked the courage to ask him if he loved her, and that was a shame. He had never told her, and that perhaps was worse.
“It’s my case,” he said. “It ends when it ends.”
He saw the tautness in her jaw. “You do what you like,” she said, and then moved out into the hall.
He had promised to be there by eight; it was ten to when the cab dropped him outside the address. Hoffner rarely traveled to this part of the city—Steglitz—which, over time, had become the haven for Berlin’s bohemians. These were the leftists who knew nothing of workers’ marches or revolutionary tactics. They were the artists and writers and foreigners and Jews and homosexuals who had sliced out a sanctuary for themselves, off in the southwestern section of town. Of course, half of Charlottenburg could always be found slumming it at a reading or an opening, or simply at a café, watching the cultural animals at play. For the rich, art and intellect were always best observed from behind a glass partition, or at least from the safety of a nearby table. That way they could laugh at the absurdity of the lives around them without stepping in too close and chancing infection. An hour or so inside the menagerie, and then it was back to their grand houses, or perhaps a dice game up north with an even seedier crowd: that was always delicious.
Unlike the rich, Hoffner drew stares. He lit a cigarette and checked the address again. The shabby little building didn’t seem quite right. It was wedged in among far more serious structures, storefronts and the like with well-kept glass windows and high-quality stenciling on the doors. This one boasted none of that, and looked dark all the way up. Still, it was the number she had given him. Hoffner pressed at the bell and waited. It was too late, now, to turn and go.
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