A Thousand Devils (Max Heller, Dresden Detective Book 2)

by Frank Goldammer

  “Is there a place we could talk?” Heller directed his eyes downward, to the pack of cigarettes that gleamed from his overcoat pocket before tucking it away again.

  “Quiet and warm, pure paradise! Let’s walk a little. It’s not far.”

  Heller nodded and followed Seibling down Louisenstrasse toward Martin Luther Strasse. Once they were halfway down, the young man looked around, gave a nod, and turned into a building driveway. The entrance led them into an inner courtyard and through a breached wall into a second courtyard. They squeezed between two walls running close together and went downstairs to a cellar. Seibling stopped at an unassuming hatch barricaded with a metal bar. He leaned his crutches against the wall and camouflaged them with a piece of old tar paper. Then he laboriously removed the bar and crawled through the square opening. Once he’d turned on an electric lamp, he waved Heller inside.

  “Pull that hatch shut.”

  The space was warm and oddly cozy despite its cramped and unhygienic condition. A filthy mattress served as Seibling’s nightly resting place, a mishmash of various blankets on top. Heller wasn’t able to move around much inside. He took off his hat, ducking his head because of the low ceiling, undid his scarf and overcoat, and looked around. Seibling had collected a bunch of canned food, mostly the kinds of things that were worthless in better times but currently sufficed as barter for a meal. A busted little cabinet, some children’s shoes, fabric scraps, severed cable, bent nails, picture frames, busted candlesticks, dented metal chests, bicycle pedals, saddles, a Wehrmacht helmet with a makeshift handle that he used as a pot.

  Seibling hopped on his hands over to his mattress, dropped onto it, and offered Heller a seat on a low stool. Heller sat, and his fingers examined the little table Seibling had built for eating and fixing things. Various tools lay around, along with a dirty tin plate and aluminum cutlery. The cut-open end of a can served as an ashtray. Heller noticed the telltale pail next to the mattress. The heat came from a homemade electric heater that stood only a foot and a half from the mattress, its hand-wound coils glowing red inside the metal box.

  Despite his wretched existence, Seibling seemed contented and cheerful. He smiled at Heller and appeared to take his glances around as appreciation.

  “Nice digs, huh?” he asked with pride.

  “You haven’t registered your current residence, I take it.”

  “Herr Heller. People who need me know where to find me. I don’t need to register. I was allocated an apartment a long time ago, but they just keep putting me off. I lived in the rubble for a year, Johannstadt district, gathered plenty of wood, yet I nearly froze to death last winter. After I got robbed for the second time, I thought to myself, Heinz, take care of you and you alone, do it all yourself.”

  “What about your family?”

  Heinz snorted. “My brother died in Sicily. Dad in Aachen. Probably an accident, seeing how he was just a driver; drove over a German mine. Mom and my sister and aunt, along with her kids, got it on the big air raid. February 13.” Seibling’s gaze didn’t waver, and his smile didn’t fade.

  Heller nodded, his lips pressed together. He felt bad for Seibling. His sons were still alive, and when they did come home, their parents would be there to greet them. But Heinz had no one left, neither parents nor siblings, and couldn’t get work nor the apartment to go with it. And now he dwelled inside this hole and lived hand to mouth. Sometimes the unfairness was so unfathomable that Heller wondered how anyone could still believe in God. People like Heinz Seibling needed to be taken care of and given some kind of hope, even if only the chance to wash once a day.

  Seibling seemed to read his thoughts. “I’m doing just fine here.” He pointed behind him. “Beyond that wall is the public swimming pool, the Germania Bad, get my electricity from them too; it’s all intact. Someone could get it back up and running. Just open it up for free for people to wash up and use the lavatory. That would be quite the socialist act, wouldn’t it? Giving farmers newly cleared land doesn’t do me much good.” Seibling leaned forward, grabbed Heller by his arm. “You won’t go telling anyone about the electricity, will you?”

  Heller shook his head and, though he’d intended to use his cigarettes sparingly, placed the whole pack on the table.

  “Heinz, can you tell me a little about the Schwarzer Peter?”

  The way Seibling raised his eyebrows said plenty. He left the pack lying there. “Gutmann owns it. He’s a real bastard, a degenerate!”

  “Someone said it’s a bordello.”

  “Yes, it’s a brothel. Almost only Russians go there. I have a couple of friends in the Soviet Army, from the regular ranks, and they say only officers are allowed in. And a few of us the Russians like well enough.”

  “But for that they’d need rooms. That place doesn’t have any. Just a back room and a storeroom.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know, never been there. But that proprietor, Gutmann, there’s something fishy about him. He does business with the top tier. He’s even providing Russian HQ with premium commissary items.”

  “Do you think the attack on the bar was because of the bordello business? There are certainly other bordellos around. You hear anything about that?”

  Seibling thought a moment, shaking his head. “No, but there’s more going on with that place. It’s a heap of trouble. Maybe the pimps are having a dispute. Fighting over whores. But I’m not that close to things. Gutmann’s also not one to mess with. Everyone keeps out of his way. He has this guy, I’m telling you, a real killer—One-Handed Franz. You can tell just by looking at him that he makes short work of people. He’d been in the war. People say he was SS, in Serbia most likely, but no one knows. Lost his hand. People say he hacked it off himself.”

  Heller nodded along. Facts were once again mixing with legend. Then Seibling remembered something. He reached behind his mattress and pulled out a small canning jar of strawberry preserves. “I got this from the pastor at Martin Luther Church. Every Sunday he hands out food and blankets for children and the invalids. He’s a good man, more socialist than the Socialist Unity Party itself. I haven’t ever gotten a thing from the likes of them. He could be rich if he sold it all. I was saving it for a special occasion. Would you like some?”

  Heller hadn’t eaten a strawberry in nearly three years. “Ah, Heinz, you keep it.”

  But Seibling wouldn’t be deterred. He opened the clamp and pulled on the rubber gasket. The lid popped open. Seibling hovered over the jar, inhaling with glee. Then he dumped half the contents onto the tin plate and pushed it over to Heller. Heller hesitated. Seibling got the message, took the plate back, and handed Heller the jar instead.

  “You’ll have to fish it out with your fingers, though.”

  Heller snorted a laugh, reached into his overcoat pocket, and pulled out a spoon. Everyone had silverware on them these days. Heller and Seibling spooned up jam for a while. Heller was trying to hide it, but the incredible sweetness and beguiling aroma nearly sent him into ecstasy. So much good sugar, he thought, in just one jar of strawberries. For a moment he wondered whether it was possible to take some home to Karin, but Seibling would surely want to keep the glass. And Karin would surely want to share with Frau Marquart, and by then she would only have a few strawberries left. No, Karin would only chastise him for not eating them all, knowing that he was abstaining just for her.

  Seibling slurped the juice off the plate and licked it clean. “I was thinking about that dead Russian. You need to find out if he was one of the ones visiting that brothel. And there was that other dead one too. So if he was in that brothel as well, then maybe he’d gotten in Gutmann’s way somehow. Maybe they wanted to relieve him of his whores. The Russians do that sometimes—take one for themselves, keep them awhile. Which is maybe why Gutmann had those Russian fellows eliminated. By that thug of his, maybe. And since the Russians can’t officially touch Gutmann, because he moves in high circles, they got at him this way.”

  It was a nice theory, but the attack was t
oo amateurish for all that. And it didn’t fit the attack on the Münchner Krug either. And what about Ovtcharov? Had he known about the bordello? Was he a guest there and knew about the dispute?

  “Tell me something, Heinz. Would you be able to keep your ears open for me?”

  “Oh no, my dear Herr Heller. You can’t ask that of me. That’s too tricky. I don’t interfere with the likes of Gutmann. His One-Handed Franz could bump me off, and you’d find me in a ditch on the edge of town; then you’d really have a heavy conscience. You can’t expect me to do that. And maybe one thing has nothing to do with the other. Maybe it’s just a dispute among the Russians. I was only speculating.”

  “All right, Heinz, okay.” Heller realized his information yield from the pack of cigarettes was looking pretty thin. But he didn’t want to put the young man in a difficult situation.

  Heller was about to get up when he remembered to show Seibling the photo of the severed head.

  “One more thing, Heinz,” he added, and handed Seibling the image, cropped just so.

  Seibling took a look and handed it back. “Yep, that’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Gutmann’s thug. One-Handed Franz.”

  February 8, 1947: Early Afternoon

  Heller had secured a patrol cop on the way to the Schwarzer Peter, and now the man pounded on the door. He listened for Gutmann but heard nothing. Heller nodded for him to knock again.

  “Someone’s inside,” he whispered to Heller.

  “Then knock again.”

  The cop hammered again. “Police, open up!”

  Footsteps eventually sounded from inside.

  “What’s the problem?” barked a male voice. “I’m busy.”

  “Oberkommissar Heller here. Open up, please.”

  “Fine, wait there. I’m indisposed at the moment.” The footsteps faded.

  “Open up! Herr Gutmann?” Heller said.

  “Should I open it?” the cop asked.

  Heller shook his head. He was frustrated. Who knew what Gutmann was hiding in there.

  It took a while for the bar owner to return. They heard bolts and locks clanking before the door finally opened.

  “Hold your position,” Heller told the cop. Then he turned to Gutmann, asking him bluntly and indignantly, “What took you so long?”

  “I was in my underwear,” Gutmann said. He didn’t have a bandage on his head anymore, and his arm appeared to have healed rather quickly. He only had the scratch on his forehead. Gutmann had combed his hair back. It glistened with pomade, his hairline deeply receding at the temples. He wore a dark-blue suit, white shirt, and dark-blue vest with a gold chain hanging from the watch pocket. The bar still smelled from the fire, though other odors were starting to blend in. Coffee, schnapps, cooked fat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said.

  “If you’d please take a seat?” Heller pointed at the nearest table. Gutmann sat, and Heller took the chair across from him. All the surviving furniture had apparently been cleaned, and the bar looked ready to reopen.

  “You know this man?” Heller placed the photo on the table and got out his notebook and pencil.

  “That’s Franz. I guess I don’t have to keep looking for him. When did you nab him?”

  “Who’s Franz?”

  “Franz Swoboda. My employee. Stopped showing up to work three days ago. Not like him at all. I figured something wasn’t right. What’d he do?”

  Heller ignored the question. “What sort of work does he do for you?”

  “Oh, whatever you can think of. Receives goods, cleans up, shovels snow, gets the heat going, keeps an eye out, ushers certain people to the door. He gets two marks an hour.”

  “How do you know each other?”

  Gutmann blew air out of his cheeks in spurts. “Can’t recall. It’s been a long time. I think he came asking for work. Fall of ’45 or thereabouts.”

  “That’s not so long ago. You didn’t know each other before that?”

  “No. Listen, did he do something wrong? Did the Russians pick him up—our Soviet Army comrades, I mean?”

  “Would they have a reason to?”

  “You know how it is. Do they even need a reason?”

  Heller tapped his pencil on the table. Gutmann didn’t seem to know Swoboda was dead. That, or he was especially clever. Heller wondered if he should tell Gutmann about the head in the backpack, if only to gauge his reaction. He decided against it. If Gutmann knew anything, Heller would need him to betray himself all on his own. If Gutmann didn’t know what was going on, then he’d let things stay that way.

  “Herr Swoboda is considered highly dangerous,” Heller said.

  Gutmann waved a hand, playing it down. “Come off it. He was just doing his job. You don’t make many friends in this business. Sometimes certain customers try getting in, even when they aren’t exactly wanted. He boots them out. It’s not for the timid.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “He’s got a little place over on Pulsnitzer. But I’ve already been there looking for him. He’s not around. His neighbors say they haven’t seen him for days.”

  “Word is you’re running a bordello here. For the Soviets.”

  “Look . . .” Gutmann stood, went over to the door, and checked to see that it was truly shut, then sat back down. “You’re skating on thin ice here, Herr Oberkommissar.”

  Heller straightened. “Just what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m only trying to help. For one, I thought you knew already. You actually believe the Russians just come here to drink? They can do that in their casinos. Second, I myself am doing nothing more than running a bar here. That’s it. I’m not sure what goes on next door, and I don’t want to know. And third, dear Comrade, the Soviets don’t do such things, get me? That’s why the ones up top, in the Party, not to mention any Soviets themselves, aren’t taking interest—because it can’t happen. You get my meaning? A story like this isn’t exactly going to make you popular with the Soviets. Because such a thing doesn’t exist, not at all.”

  Heller thought that over for a moment. Did Medvedev know about this? Should he be informed? After all, he said he wanted to know everything that was happening.

  “Next door, you said?” he asked Gutmann. “Can I see the rooms?”

  Gutmann stared at him, his face hardening. “There’s nothing to see in there. Leave it be. I’m only trying to help you!”

  Heller tapped his pencil on the table again. These were words to be taken seriously. Ovtcharov had already shadowed him twice. He’d even ordered a daily report. It would be easy enough for Ovtcharov to have him tailed permanently. Someone could even have been watching him as he entered the bar.

  Heller stood. “Fine, let’s leave it.”

  Gutmann exhaled, clearly relieved. “Tell me, when’s Franz getting out? Or do I need to start thinking about getting someone else?”

  “I can’t tell you that because I don’t know. Have a good day.”

  Heller left the bar, dismissed the waiting policeman, stood there a moment, and then turned to the right. He strolled up Louisenstrasse at a leisurely pace until he reached the building next door. He looked at the ground-floor windows with their closed shutters and eventually knocked on the front door. A small window let him see into the entryway, and he tried the door handle, but it was locked. He took a step back and looked up. Only the ground floor looked occupied in this building as well; the windows above were all boarded up.

  Heller spoke to an elderly man who was passing by. “Excuse me, does anyone live here?”

  “Just a few women been living there, but you already know that!” The man winked. “Three or four, changes sometimes. But it looks like they’re all gone starting yesterday. Made themselves scarce.”

  Heller used the nearby police station on Katharinenstrasse to make a phone call. He got Oldenbusch on the line after some delay, losing the connection twice.

  “Anything new with the search warrant?” Heller listened, froze
n. “What kind of circumstance could they possibly still need to check on? . . . What’s the prosecutor’s name? . . . Speidel? You don’t mean Detlev Speidel?” A sharp hiss escaped his lips. “Early tomorrow morning? Afternoon? Then the Schlüter villa needs to be watched around the clock, and we should intervene at the first sign of suspicious activity. We need at least some leeway! Try to make it happen. If Speidel doesn’t agree, I’ll step in. Listen, Werner, this means I’ll be paying another visit to Frau Schlüter. She’s expecting me anyhow, because of that list. I also get the feeling she’d open up to me if I came alone. And I need you to look into something. Franz Swoboda is the dead man’s name, the head in the backpack. He was a bouncer at the Schwarzer Peter. Yes, Swoboda: Siegfried Wilhelm Otto Bruno Otto Dora Anton. Swoboda. Franz. Gutmann doesn’t know he’s dead, or at least he’s acting like he doesn’t. Find out anything you can about him. Delegate the task if you have to. We need to question registrar offices and locate relatives. I’m sure he’s notorious around the area, considered dangerous. I’ll be in the office early tomorrow to expedite the search warrant. Let’s call it a day for once. Have a nice evening, Werner.”

  Heller hung up and needed a moment to reflect. Detlev Speidel! He couldn’t believe it. He was still worked up as he left the station, heading toward Pulsnitzer Strasse.

  Swoboda’s apartment wasn’t hard to find, Pulsnitzer being a narrow street along a cemetery. Everyone knew One-Handed Franz. Heller only had to ask once and was pointed to his building immediately. He climbed the stairs all the way up under the roof before coming to a door that opened to what looked like a storeroom—narrow, low, fitted with a handle knob. This wouldn’t be a question of unlawful entry—there was imminent danger, for which he didn’t need a search warrant. Heller cautiously pressed down on the handle. The door opened. Apparently, people feared One-Handed Franz so much that he could leave his door unlocked.

  Heller slipped off his shoes and entered. Sparse light came in from two narrow windows. He spotted a steel oven in one corner, a bed under the sloping roof, a cabinet next to the door. In front of a small table, which had a neatly placed tablecloth, were two chairs at precise right angles to one another. A sideboard substituted for the kitchen. Everything seemed clinically clean, the wooden floor bare, nothing unessential. A pair of shiny shoes beside the stove. The bed was made in military fashion, with crisp folds, not a single crease. The whole room smelled of Ajax. A toothbrush and powder, soap, comb, and razor were arranged in rows on the shelf above the tiny sink. Heller opened the cabinet. Everything was in neat order, clothing perfectly folded and next to it a stack of papers on top of a photo album. Heller went through the stack and found nothing out of the ordinary. Then he pulled out the photo album, opened the first page, and looked at the images. He was so disgusted he felt nauseous, as if his stomach had filled with some black toxin. He went to sit down.