Fichte stared in disbelief. “You must be mad,” he said. “You think I’m going to let you take her home?”
“No one’s taking her home, Hans,” he said. “We’ll find her a cab.”
“So you can get into the next one and follow her out there? You think I’m stupid?”
Lina cut in furiously, “You think I’d let him come? You think I’d let either of you?”
It was too much for Fichte, who was having trouble following. He searched for something else to say, but instead settled for dropping his head to his chest.
Hoffner stepped over and took Lina’s arm; she put up no resistance. “Wait here, Hans.”
They found a taxi stand around the corner. They had walked in silence, although Lina had allowed him to keep his arm in hers. He opened the door and they stood there, staring at each other. It was only then that he felt regret, not for their past but for the pain he saw in her eyes.
“He’ll be fine,” he said, trying to find something to console her.
This only seemed to make things worse. “You think that’s what this is?” she said. Hoffner had no answer. She spoke quietly and without accusation. “He called me a whore and you said nothing.” The word slapped at him. “Is that what you think, that I’m a whore?”
Hoffner stood stunned. She was capable of inflicting pain; he had never known that. “No,” he said. He wanted to believe that the sudden swimming in his head was from the ribs or the whiskey, but he knew better. “No,” he repeated.
It was not nearly enough. Hoffner started to say something else, but she stepped past him and into the cab. Unwilling to look at him, she sat back and stared straight ahead.
Hoffner knew there was nothing to be said now. He watched her a moment longer and then shut the door. He told the driver where to take her and handed the man a few coins, more than enough to get her home.
Fichte was gone by the time he got back. It would be an early night for everyone. Hoffner wondered what Martha would make of that.
THE THIRD PRISONER
He had made the reservations for tomorrow, Thursday morning.
Meanwhile, Hoffner had spent the better part of this morning suffering through a series of hot baths and liniment treatments; there had been no way to fight it. He had barely been able to get out of bed, and Martha had lost no time in getting a doctor to the flat. Something had torn, according to the specialist; breathing would be painful for the next few days. Hoffner could thank Fichte’s considerable size for that. The doctor had recommended a week in bed. Hoffner had agreed to half a day.
Luckily, it had forced him to see just how useful the telephone could be. Everyone seemed to be far more efficient than when in person. Hoffner was guessing that a request from a disembodied voice conveyed an authority attributable to some higher source: “two tickets for Munich” had never sounded so numinous.
The station envelope was waiting on his desk when he arrived back at the Alex. Hoffner penned a short note and placed it, along with one of the tickets, into a separate envelope. He then called upstairs for one of the boys, and three minutes later, little Sascha arrived at his door.
“How’s the Count?” said Hoffner, shuffling through more of van Acker’s files. He was still working on Manstein, who remained nothing more than a name. Hoffner glanced over when there was no reply. “Of Monte Cristo,” he said. “All’s well there?”
Sascha brightened up. “Oh yes, Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar. It’s Treasure Island now.”
Hoffner nodded encouragingly. “Spending your money on books. That’s commendable.” He held out the envelope. The Kremmener Strasse address was written in thick pen. “You know where this is?”
The boy read and nodded. “I don’t buy them, Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar,” he said as he tucked the envelope into his pocket. “Franz gives them to me when he’s finished with them.” Another bit of surprising news, thought Hoffner. “Do you want me to wait for a response, Herr Kriminal-Oberkommissar?”
Hoffner knew the answer would be coming soon enough: 9:13 tomorrow morning if the schedule was correct. “Just make sure it gets there. You don’t have to wait.”
Sascha was gone by the time Hoffner had dug out a few coins. Odd little fellow, he thought. He would never make it on the streets. Maybe little Franz knew that, as well.
The Hotel Eden remained the temporary headquarters of the Cavalry Guards Rifle Division, the Schtzen-Division.
Hoffner had made sure to tell the duty sergeant that he was heading over; he wanted anyone taking an interest in his itinerary to know what he was doing this afternoon: a message of his own, as it were, to make it clear that it would take more than a few bruises to derail him. Maybe, then, there was just a hint of ego in all of this.
Unfortunately, Hoffner still had no idea what he intended to do now that he was at the hotel. It was unlikely that Pabst or Runge would have much to say to a Kripo detective; then again, these were not clever men. There was always the chance that they knew more than they should.
Aside from the uniforms, Hoffner was hard-pressed to find anything remotely akin to military precision on the first floor. Soldiers milled about, some armed, others in half-buttoned tunics, most with cigarettes stuck in the corners of their mouths. These, suffice it to say, were not regular troops. What little help Hoffner’s badge had been across town at the GS was here the object of sneers and laughter. It was only when he started up for the second floor that a sergeant shouted over from his game of cards.
“And where do you think you’re going, Herr Kripo?” The man smiled across at his fellow players.
Hoffner stopped and said easily, “It looks like up these stairs, doesn’t it, Herr Sergeant?”
The man was not amused. “No one goes up without our saying so.”
Hoffner nodded to himself. “That’s good to know.” He began to climb again.
The man was up, rifle in hand, before Hoffner had taken two more steps. The sergeant cocked the bolt. Hoffner stopped and the man drew up to the base of the stairs.
“Did you hear me say so, Herr Kripo?” The hall fell silent. Hoffner was now the center of attention.
Hoffner slowly turned around and peered down at the man. He waited and then said, “Are you going to shoot me, Herr Sergeant?”
The man was clearly not used to being challenged; it was wonderful to see a man struggle so publicly with his own arrogance. There were several long moments of indecision before the sergeant said quickly, “Let me see that badge again.”
Hoffner was impressed; the man had shown remarkable restraint. Hoffner slowly walked back down the steps, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out his badge. He held it there, his gaze unwavering.
Without so much as a glance, the sergeant said, “That’s all right, then.” He nodded his head. “You can go up.”
Hoffner remained where he was and slowly placed the badge in his pocket. “Thank you, Herr Sergeant,” he said. “You’ve been very helpful.” Hoffner then turned and headed up the stairs. Behind him, he heard the first murmurs of conversation reclaim the hall. Hoffner wondered if it would always be this easy to back these men down.
First Staff Captain Pabst was in his office—a converted hotel room overlooking the Gardens—having a smoke with two of his officers when Hoffner appeared at the door. At least here there was a bit more decorum. A young lieutenant was seated in the hallway. He announced Hoffner and then stepped aside.
Pabst was buttoning his tunic when he invited Hoffner in. He was all cheekbones and charm as he motioned to a chair. “Please, Herr Oberkommissar.” He turned to the two other men. “That will be all, gentlemen.”
The officers snapped their heads sharply and then moved past Hoffner. Pabst waited behind his desk.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, Herr Kapitn?” Hoffner began as he sat.
“Not at all. Cigarette, Herr Oberkommissar?” Pabst kept his private cache in a silver holder, which he now pulled from his pocket. Hoffner declined. “A Kripo chief inspecto
r,” said Pabst. “What can possibly be of interest to you here?” He placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit up.
“Routine questions, Herr Kapitn. A formality, really. About the Liebknecht and Luxemburg killings.”
Pabst showed a moment’s recognition before the bland smile returned. He nodded knowingly. “Oh yes, of course,” he answered as if he were talking about a soldier’s missed curfew. “Someone seems to think some of my men were involved, is that right?”
Hoffner found the indifference almost believable. “There was an article, Herr Kapitn. Accusations. We simply have to follow them up, that’s all.”
“Naturally. But, correct me if I’m wrong, Herr Oberkommissar, anything untoward would fall under military jurisdiction? That is right, isn’t it?”
Hoffner wondered if the phrase was printed in some training manual somewhere. He also saw how Pabst had chosen his words carefully: not “wrongdoing” or “criminal activity,” but “anything untoward.” Pabst was setting the tone. “These were very public figures, Herr Kapitn. It’s more about information. How the army deals with its own is not our concern.”
Hoffner was pleased with himself for this turn of phrase, not that he knew what it meant. Luckily, it seemed to be having the same effect on Pabst: mild confusion left him with no real response. “Naturally,” said Pabst, his smile less convincing.
Hoffner spoke directly: “Could you then describe the events of January fifteen?”
Pabst lingered with his cigarette. “Of course,” he said. He let out a long stream of smoke and began to recount a story that both of them already knew: the arrest in the Wilmersdorf flat, Liebknecht and Luxemburg brought to the hotel, interrogation, identification. Pabst finished by saying, “I then had them sent to the civilian prison at Moabit. We were directed to bring all the captured leaders of the revolt to Moabit.”
Hoffner had been writing in his notebook. He looked up and said, “There was some question as to the transport, Herr Kapitn.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, Herr Oberkommissar.”
“But they were your men?”
“Yes.”
“So you would have been given a full report on the unit’s activities. That is right, isn’t it?”
Hoffner was hoping for more of a crack in the expression, but Pabst was better at this than the men he commanded. “Liebknecht was shot while trying to escape, if that’s what you mean.”
“And Luxemburg?”
Pabst took his time crushing out his cigarette. “You seem to need it from the horse’s mouth, don’t you, Herr Oberkommissar?” And without waiting for Hoffner to respond, he lifted the receiver of the telephone. “Send in Leutnant Pflugk-Hartung. Thank you.” This was not a name Jogiches had mentioned. Pabst looked across the desk as he hung up. “The man who led the unit, Herr Oberkommissar.” Jogiches had assigned that role to a Lieutenant Vogel, although he had kept the information out of his article: only Pabst and Runge had made it to press. Before Hoffner could answer, Pabst was raising a hand to the door and ushering the man in. “Come in, Leutnant.” It was as if Pflugk-Hartung had been waiting in the wings.
The young lieutenant was the perfect specimen of Teutonic breeding: white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes stood at strict attention by the desk. He was a far cry from the slovenly mess Hoffner had left on the first floor. Looks, however, were deceiving. The moment Pflugk-Hartung opened his mouth, it was clear why he had been relegated to the Schtzen-Division. This was not a bright man.
“Liebknecht showed himself to be the dog that he was,” said Pflugk-Hartung. “It was a pleasure to shoot him when he ran like a coward.”
The fact that Pabst had brought him in as his trump card spoke volumes about the Herr Kapitn, as well.
“And Frau Luxemburg?” said Hoffner.
Hoffner could see the wheels spinning; he also noticed how Pabst was gazing up at the man, like a tutor waiting to hear the recitation they had just gone over. Evidently, Hoffner’s time on the first floor had not been all fun and games; it had given the second floor time to prepare.
Pflugk-Hartung said, “She was taken by a mob. I don’t know what happened after that.”
Hoffner said, “A mob was able to steal her away from a crack unit of the Cavalry Guards? That must have been quite a mob, Herr Leutnant.”
Pabst cut in before Pflugk-Hartung could answer. “It was the revolution, Herr Oberkommissar. The streets were madness. After all, there were only six of my men.”
And there it was, thought Hoffner. The first real detail. Pabst might have been far more self-controlled than his men, but he was no less arrogant, and that arrogance was about to be his undoing. “Six men for two prisoners?” said Hoffner. “That seems a bit sparse, Herr Kapitn.” He gave Pabst no time to respond; instead, he turned to Pflugk-Hartung and said, “Were you surprised that you were given only five men, Herr Leutnant, even for a dog like Liebknecht—and Luxemburg, to boot?” Pabst began to answer, but Hoffner put up a quick hand as he continued to gaze at Pflugk-Hartung. “The horse’s mouth, Herr Kapitn,” he said. Pabst was smart enough to know that any further objection would only make things worse. Pflugk-Hartung stared straight ahead; he was clearly at a loss. Hoffner said, “Was a Leutnant Vogel a member of your unit?”
Pflugk-Hartung looked momentarily surprised; his eyes danced as he struggled to find an answer.
“I ask again,” said Hoffner. “Was a Leutnant Vogel a member of your unit?”
Pflugk-Hartung answered quickly. “Yes.”
“Yes?” said Hoffner with feigned surprise. “Two officers in a unit of six men? Was there a reason for that?” Again Pabst tried to interrupt, and again Hoffner politely held him at bay. “Unless there were two units of six men led by two different lieutenants? Would that have made more sense?” Pflugk-Hartung was now well out of his depth; he continued to stare ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes, Herr Leutnant.” Hoffner turned to Pabst and spoke quickly. “You sent Liebknecht and Luxemburg to Moabit separately, didn’t you, Herr Kapitn? Two prisoners taken from the same flat at the same time, questioned at the same time, identified at the same time, yet transported to the civilian prison one by one. Who gave the orders to separate them?”
Pabst stared coldly across the desk. This was not the way things had been laid out. He was about to answer, when Pflugk-Hartung blurted out, “Herr Leutnant Vogel was delayed by the third prisoner.” The boy truly believed he was helping his Herr Kapitn. “It was therefore decided that my unit should leave at once.”
Hoffner gave Pabst no chance to answer. “A third prisoner?” said Hoffner.
This time, Pabst cut in quickly. “The Herr Leutnant is confusing the informant with a third prisoner. The man was brought in at the same time as Liebknecht and Luxemburg. There was no third prisoner.”
Hoffner watched the young lieutenant’s eyes. The boy had made a mistake, and he knew it. “I see,” said Hoffner. “And what was the delay?”
“What usually happens at those moments,” Pabst said coolly. “The informant was demanding more money. Herr Leutnant Vogel was resolving the situation.” Without looking up, Pabst said, “That will be all, Herr Leutnant.” Much relieved, Pflugk-Hartung clicked his heels and headed for the door. Pabst waited until he and Hoffner were alone before saying, “It was one more night in the revolution, Herr Oberkommissar.” The affable Pabst had returned. “Guns and mobs. What else do you expect with a Jew radical on the loose? I was lucky not to lose a man. Of course, I take full responsibility for any of the mishaps—the separation of the prisoners, the breakdown in discipline with the informant—but, as you said, that would be for a military tribunal to decide.”
Hoffner saw where this was going; there was no reason to press things further. “Of course,” he said.
Pabst stood. “Unfortunately, I have given you as much time as I can this afternoon. You’ll forgive me, Herr Oberkommissar.”
Hoffner stood. “You’ve been most kind, Herr Kapitn.”
Three minutes later, Ho
ffner was across from the Gardens and stepping up onto a tram. Jogiches had known about the separation of Liebknecht and Luxemburg; he had known about the third prisoner: Hoffner was certain of that. The question was, what was Jogiches protecting?
“What exactly were you doing at the Hotel Eden, interrogating a Captain Pabst?”
Kriminaldirektor Präger was standing by his window, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve just had a very nice telephone call from the Office of the General Staff, reminding me that Kripo jurisdiction doesn’t extend that far.” He stared across at Hoffner. “What are you doing, Nikolai?”
It was the most animated Hoffner had seen Präger in months. “Closing out a case, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”
Präger nodded skeptically. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what this is.” He moved back to his desk. “I don’t think you realize how tenuous things are right now. You might not care, but no one knows if this government is going to take, so while they’re deciding, the GS is being rather stingy with its allegiances. You don’t want to get on the wrong end of that, Nikolai.”
“You mean I don’t want this department to get on the wrong end of that.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Präger was making this very plain. “Whether you want to accept it or not, you’re a man with a very high profile at the moment. What you do reflects on all of us. So, next time, think about that before you go poking your nose around where it doesn’t belong.”
“And if it does belong?” Hoffner said it just so as to see a little gnawing on the inside of the cheek.
“Look, Nikolai”—Präger’s tone now far more conciliatory—“I’ve never told you how to run an investigation. I’m not going to start now. Just be aware of these things. There’s more at stake now.”
Hoffner wondered if the KD had been talking with Jogiches. He said nothing.
“By the way,” Präger added, “there’s talk that your young Fichte has been spending his time up on the fourth floor. Anything I should know?”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
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