Hoffner felt a numbing in his head as he drew closer. He tried to brace himself for what he knew lay beneath, until he saw the shape. The body was too large, the contours wrong. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t Lina. Hoffner slowed, and the desperate fear he had been carrying with him since the Alex melted away. They had sent him a message: We know where she is. We know how to find her. Consider yourself lucky this time. Hoffner knelt down and pulled back the sheet. For several seconds his mind went blank as he stared at the face. Martha’s lifeless eyes gazed up at him and Hoffner vomited.
SIX
HEAVEN ON EARTH
In the summer of 1903, married less than a year and recently promoted to detective sergeant, Hoffner had taken Martha out to Wannsee for a day at the beach. He had put a little extra money in his pocket and they had rented two chairs and an umbrella and a cabana-tent of their own. She had packed sandwiches and a bottle of Sekt to celebrate, and after lunch they had changed into swimming clothes and waded out to where the water was coolest. Side by side and staring out across the endless lake, he had finally agreed to have a family. Martha had reached down into the water and pulled up a pebble as a keepsake. Hoffner had found it in a box by their bed the day he had buried her.
The following morning he had been relieved of duty. Präger had talked about the strain of it all, that a man couldn’t be expected to run a case in his position—any case—but the real impetus for Hoffner’s ouster was far more transparent: Präger had been told to clear him out. The order had come from beyond the walls of the Alex. There was nothing either of them could do.
Tonight, Hoffner’s refuge was a grotty little bar deep inside the maze that was Prenzlauer Berg, sawdust strewn across its floor for whatever the shadows might be failing to hide. A woman hovered shamelessly by the bartender, the dim light working in her favor: there might just be a warm bed for her tonight. The rest of the clientele showed a little more decorum: chins drooped to chests, aimless fingers clasped at half-filled glasses. Only the sudden shaking of a head and the quick tossing-back of a drink gave any indication that the place was anything more than a repository for propped-up corpses. Hoffner checked the bottle in front of him and saw it was whiskey he had been pouring back tonight.
Time had taken an odd turn in the past few days: it had slipped by with a steady indifference even as it had remained fixed on that moment in Kremmener Strasse. For the first time, Berlin was pushing forward without him: two more bodies had been found in Charlottenburg; the panic had returned. More than that, rekindled accusations of Kripo incompetence now hung over the city like so many added layers of soiled snow. There was even talk of corruption.
The papers, of course, were rewriting the past. Wouters was no longer the demented madman but the scapegoat for an investigation that had gone terribly wrong: what was the Kripo hiding? The fact that the little Belgian had been shot while wheeling around his final victim had somehow been lost to a collective bout of amnesia. It was even beginning to take its toll on the fledgling government: who was protecting Berlin?
Hoffner read through the articles—coherent moments between bottles—and let everything drift past him. Poor Fichte looked so hapless on all those front pages, no one to buy him a drink this time round.
Hoffner felt a shadow as a figure appeared at the end of his table.
“You’ve enough for two?” said a voice.
Hoffner looked up to see Leo Jogiches standing with an empty glass in hand; Jogiches placed the glass on the table: it had only been a matter of time, thought Hoffner. He took the glass and filled it.
“Difficult to track you down,” said Jogiches as he sat.
“I didn’t know anyone was looking.”
“I’ve had a man at your flat.”
“Then he must have been very lonely.”
Jogiches took a sip of the whiskey. “Keeping yourself busy,” he said as he nodded over at the bottle.
Hoffner poured one for himself. “Not as busy as you,” he said as he set the bottle down; he tapped at the paper that was on the table. “Can’t open one of these without reading about your General Strike. Workers of the world . . .” Hoffner snorted quietly to himself. “It won’t make any difference.”
The Party had called the strike three days ago, even though Jogiches had known it was a mistake: still, Eisner’s assassination had given everyone hope. Who was he to stamp on that? “Worth a try,” said Jogiches. “Someone had to keep them on their toes.”
Hoffner took a drink.
Jogiches said, “I was sorry to read about your wife.”
“Were you?” Hoffner kept his eyes on his glass. “They send a very clear message.”
Jogiches finished off his whiskey and said, “So Munich was a success?”
Hoffner wondered if Jogiches ever saw a human side in all of this. He said plainly, “If by success you mean it was enough to provoke them to kill my wife, then yes.” Hoffner refilled his glass.
Compassion made Jogiches uncomfortable. He said awkwardly, “There are children?”
The questions were growing more absurd. Hoffner laughed bitterly to himself. “Yes,” he said with surprising sharpness. “There are children.” He had spoken to no one about this, and a week’s worth of resentments now spilled out. “And since you’re so interested, the older boy blames me for her death, while the little one hasn’t said a word since. He was asleep when it happened—when they came and took my wife—so you can see how lucky he was, but there’s always the chance that he heard something, isn’t there? A few shouts from beyond the bedroom?” Hoffner took his glass and eyed the liquid. “They’re living with her sisters now.” This carried an added sourness. “Best for everyone, I imagine.” He tossed back the whiskey and placed the glass on the table. “You’ve made the effort. We can move on.”
Jogiches might have expected the venom; or if not, at least he understood it. Either way, he was happy enough to leave it behind them. “So you’ve seen today’s papers?”
“Today’s, yesterday’s, makes no difference.”
“Ah, but it does. They’ve widened their scope.” Hoffner didn’t follow. “The Kripo isn’t all that they’re after, Herr Inspector. Word is that the carvings are being inspired by a lace design. A design from a very specific source.”
It took Hoffner a moment to sift through the booze. When he did, he recalled Brenner’s warning. “They’re claiming it’s a Jew?”
Jogiches nodded. “A boy was beaten outside a shop in the Kurfrstendamm. There was broken glass and some writing at a synagogue.”
For the first time in days, Hoffner stepped outside of himself. The hysteria was taking on a distinct Thulian flavor. Jogiches saw the shift in his expression and said, “And that would be consistent with what you found in Munich?”
Hoffner stared across the table; for several moments he said nothing. He knew he could either pour himself another drink or he could answer. It was as simple as that. Finally he said, “Who was the third prisoner at the Eden?”
Jogiches allowed himself a smile. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you, Inspector?”
Hoffner heard the echoes of “cause” and “truth” in the question: how little Jogiches understood. “The third prisoner,” he repeated.
“A man named Pieck. One of Rosa’s former students. His bad luck to be at the flat the night they were taken.”
“And he saw everything?”
“Yes.”
“They simply let him go?”
“False papers. Good enough to convince the halfwits of the Schtzen-Division. They’ve never been terribly bright over there. Pieck slipped away in the confusion.”
“And you trust him?”
“About this, yes.”
“So who gave the orders to separate them?”
“Wolfgang Nepp.” Jogiches paused for effect. “Former Wehrmacht general, and current Deputy Minister of Defense.”
This was the last item in Jogiches’s private cache, though it hardly made any difference: if the
Munich loonies had drummed up disciples in the officer corps and the Polpo, why then not in Ebert’s government? Not that Hoffner needed a reason to share what he had with Jogiches: the events of the last week had made discretion somehow pass.
Hoffner traced the line from Wouters through the substitution of the now-dead Urlicher to the beer-hall Eckart, and finally to Herr Doktor Manstein and the Thulian Society. He explained the military connections to the Ascomycete 4, and the link between the Rosenthaler station design and the directors of Ganz-Neurath—those Prussian business interests. He ran through the details on the second carver—the jagged versus the smooth lines—then Tamshik’s appearance at the Ochsenhof, and through it all Jogiches listened intently, never once asking a question.
When Hoffner was finished, he poured himself a glass and said, “All the pieces, mein Herr. Nice and neat. You can do with them what you will.” Hoffner shot back the whiskey and poured himself another. He expected Jogiches to get up, but the man continued to stare at him from across the table. When it became apparent that Jogiches had no intention of leaving, Hoffner said, “Not enough for you?”
Jogiches waited before answering. “Is it for you?” he said.
Hoffner had answered the question days ago: it was why he was still here. “Let’s just say we don’t share the same needs, you and I.”
“Things have resolved themselves to your satisfaction, then?”
Hoffner did his best to ignore the goading. There was no point in going down this path. He said, “How much of this did you know in January?” Jogiches showed a moment’s surprise. “Rcker’s bar,” said Hoffner. “The day after she was killed. You were there, keeping an eye on me.”
Jogiches recalled their first encounter. “The tired professor. I didn’t think you would have remembered that.” He nodded his approval. “Groener,” he said. “He’d seen Rosa and the carvings when she first came in that morning, and knew the case would go to you. He got in touch with me, told me where I might find you. I suppose I wanted to see the sort of man who would be asked to make sense of it.”
“And?”
“You didn’t seem a complete idiot.”
“No,” Hoffner corrected. “And how much did you know?”
Jogiches took the bottle and refilled his glass. “Not enough to have stopped the killings, if that’s what you mean. Pieck found me the night before. He told me that Rosa had been taken by Vogel. I knew she was no maniac’s victim.” He was about to drink, when he said, “Or, rather, I knew she wasn’t your maniac’s victim. Which meant that there was something more to her killing, and more to your killings, than either of us realized at the time.” He finished his whiskey.
“And Munich?”
“That came later, after you’d caught the Belgian. There was money flowing into the Schtzen-Division. Rifleman Runge wasn’t shy about spending his. It took me time to trace it. A Munich doctor. More than that I couldn’t find. I assume he was your Herr Manstein. Groener also found telephone logs for calls to and from Munich by a Polpo detective.”
“Braun,” said Hoffner.
“Yes. He was also meeting with Nepp on a regular basis. The arrogance of these people astounds me.”
Hoffner thought about his own trip to Munich: and what had that been, he wondered. He said, “So this Pieck is willing to come forward?”
“If it comes to that.”
Hoffner saw something in Jogiches’s eyes. “You don’t know where he is, do you?”
Jogiches waited: there was nothing apologetic in the tone when he spoke. “No,” he said. “Not that it would make any difference. A Red pointing the finger . . . who’s going to place much stock in that?”
It was an obvious point, but one that Hoffner would never have thought Jogiches willing to accept, at least not so graciously. And then it struck him, the reason why Jogiches had been with this from the start: the reason he was still at the table. “But a Kripo Detective . . . that’s something entirely different, isn’t it?” Hoffner waited for a reaction; when none came, he said, “You or your friend Pieck put things together and no one has to pay attention. You let the Kripo put it together and suddenly there’s a legitimate case.”
For several long moments, Jogiches continued to hold Hoffner’s stare. He then raised his eyebrows and said, “And there it is.” Again he waited. “Tell me, Inspector, would you have trusted anything I might have given you openly? The former lover out for revenge, the mad revolutionary desperate for chaos? Was I wrong? It was all in the aid of truth, so what difference does it make? I certainly wouldn’t have trusted you had the positions been reversed.”
“You wouldn’t have trusted me regardless of the positions.”
“Fair enough.”
For the first time in a week Hoffner felt a different kind of hostility, one aimed out, not in. It perched at the base of his throat and was oddly comforting. “And now I’m meant to finish what you started, is that it?” he said.
“I started nothing,” said Jogiches. “I simply chose the best route to an end.”
“Regardless of the consequences.”
“You and I aren’t all that different in that regard, are we, Inspector?” Jogiches could be equally biting. When Hoffner said nothing, Jogiches said, “You’re not the only one to have lost something in this.”
Hoffner remained silent: there was nothing he could say to defend himself.
Jogiches shifted tone: “When was the last time you saw a bed?” Hoffner couldn’t remember; he shrugged. “You need sleep,” Jogiches said as he stood. “I have a place.” Hoffner shook his head, but Jogiches already had the bottle. He turned to the bartender. “We’ll take this with us.” The man nodded distractedly and went back to the woman. Jogiches turned to Hoffner. “You need to get up now.”
It was close to eleven when they stepped outside. Hoffner had lost track of the time hours ago—days ago—and was struck by the pitch black of the night sky. Why, he wondered, had he imagined it to be earlier? He breathed in deeply—only a twinge now from his ribs—and let the rawness fill his lungs. He had almost forgotten the taste of crisp air; it cleared his head. He recalled having spent a night at the Hotel Palme in and among the whores and pickpockets, the sight of its tattered awning up ahead now a reminder of muffled voices and thuds coming from somewhere beyond his walls as he had drifted in and out of sleep. He had chosen the Palme for a reason. He now remembered that, as well.
Two streets on, he turned right. Jogiches stopped behind him and said, “Where are you going?”
Hoffner spoke over his shoulder as he continued to walk. “This won’t take long.” With no other choice, Jogiches caught up and the two walked in silence.
The street might have been any other, a lamp here and there to offer the pretense of civility, but the chipped walls and occasional shattered window of the flats above made plain what kind of life lay within. Even where a strip of light peeked through from the edge of a drawn shade, there was no warmth beyond it. This was a street meant to be forgotten, and it was why Hoffner had chosen it.
He mounted the steps to one of the stoops and pressed his thumb twice, then twice again, against the bell for the third-floor flat. Jogiches had remained down in the street. Hoffner peered up and saw a curtain ripple. Half a minute later he heard footsteps through the door. It opened and a dim light spilled out onto the stoop.
Lina held her arms tightly across her chest, her best defense against the chill in a thin dress. She was without makeup, her skin an ashy white, her eyes smaller and less severe than usual: Hoffner had never noticed the natural beauty in her face. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said, and she shook her head. “It’s all right, then?” he said. “The place?” Hoffner had called in a favor, a black-market meats peddler who kept a spare room. At least Lina was eating well. She nodded. He said, “It shouldn’t be more than another few days, just to be safe. You have money?”
“I’m going tomorrow.”
Hoffner shook his head. “They might still have someon
e watching your place.”
“Not there,” she said. Her eyes dropped as she spoke. “I have an uncle in Oldenburg. In the north. He has a shop.”
This was something Hoffner had never considered. He had imagined that he could place her safely away for a time, lose himself, and then return to open the cage: a final act of contrition. Maybe then she would keep him somewhere in her memory, but that, too, seemed not to be. He did his best to sound encouraging. “A flower shop?”
She looked up and tried a smile, but there was too much sadness in her eyes. “I hope not.”
“It’ll be better there, I imagine.” Hoffner had no idea why he had said it.
She nodded unconvincingly. “The boy is all right?”
The boy, he thought. Fifteen-year-old Sascha. What, then, was a girl of nineteen? Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out the few bills he had. “You’ll want this for the train.”
She shook her head and said, “I’m all right. Give it to Elise. She’ll need it for the rent.” She took in a deep breath and glanced up at the sky as she tightened her arms around her chest. “I’m not running away, you know. It’s just too much right now.”
Hoffner took her hand and placed the money in her palm. So many things to notice for the first time: the smallness of a wrist, the slenderness of her fingers. He saw her shiver. “You should go in,” he said.
Her fingers closed around his hand. “You could come up?”
The warmth of her body and the promise of a bed, he thought: if only it were that simple. He shook his head and took back his hand. Her neck was now a rippling of gooseflesh.
She said, “There really isn’t anything here for me, is there?”
Hope and despair, like a wake trailing behind him: Hoffner could feel himself being pulled in. “You should take a taxi,” he said. “As close to the time as possible. No reason to be out on the platform longer than you have to be.”
She was reaching for him even as he spoke, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her cheek pulled tight into his neck. He felt the warmth of her breath, and he placed his arm around her. There was life within her embrace, a sudden strength that was all the more wrenching as she pulled away, her arms folded to her chest. Her face was again a placid gray. “You don’t think it will be this way, and then of course it is. Silly, really.”
Rosa Page 39