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

by Frank Goldammer

  “No excuses, Werner. Help me open his shirt.” Heller started working on the buttons. Together they pulled the shirt over the dead man’s head.

  “Clearly a needle prick,” Oldenbusch stated after brief inspection. “So he was sedated. Why tie him up?”

  “To me, it looks like he was being tortured. The murderer let him hang there awhile before cutting off his restraints, so he could watch him struggle as he died.”

  “But how did the perpetrator get him up there? I could barely hold him, and I was only trying to pull him down.”

  “He pulled him up by the rope around his neck. You can see where rope rubbed against the beam up there. You can see it on the radiator too. And the way leverage works, it wouldn’t have been as heavy with the rope at that length. It’s the same as using a pulley. Maybe the perpetrator wasn’t alone either. The chair was probably tipped over to make it look like a suicide. I’m sure it’s the same with the suicide note. Show it to me.”

  Oldenbusch reached for the page and handed it to Heller.

  “I’m a bastard,” Heller read. “A murderer. A disgrace to my parents. What’s the point of living such a nasty life? There isn’t one! May the Lord have mercy on me.”

  Heller pursed his lips and scanned the text once more. “No sign of a break-in?”

  “Neither at the front nor the back door. Maybe Gutmann knew the person and trusted them.”

  “Or someone had a key. Maybe the same person who murdered Swoboda. Or someone surprised him as he was entering the bar. Or they gained entry using a weapon. Werner, we should be clear about what we’re doing here.” Heller handed the page back to Oldenbusch.

  Oldenbusch sat down again. “You mean, how best to deal with this? Max, you think the Soviets have a hand in this?”

  “Not all. One or a few of them. Gutmann himself warned me to steer clear. I’m not sure who among the Soviets would be authorized to have Gutmann released.”

  “But that note, it has no mistakes in it,” Oldenbusch offered.

  “That doesn’t explain anything. All it shows is a good knowledge of German. And that rope? Where do people get something like that these days? It’s not a clothesline.”

  “But why cover up a murder so amateurishly? Why even go to the trouble? Does the perpetrator not think we’re capable?”

  Heller shrugged. He had to think hard about how to proceed. Someone had committed this murder without caring if the crime was discovered. Someone who felt safe or, even worse, was mocking him.

  “All right, Werner, let’s do it this way. We’ll treat this case the way the murderer wants it to look: Josef Gutmann took his own life. That’s how we’ll pass it off, how the prosecutor will know of it. Let the perpetrator consider himself in the clear.”

  Oldenbusch, not satisfied, grimaced. “Or another possibility is that he knows we’re playing with marked cards and is just toying with us the way he played with Gutmann. We’ll end up bumped off too. Max, the Russians don’t mess around—you’re in Siberia before you know it.”

  “Speculating won’t get us anywhere, Werner. Officially ignoring Gutmann’s death isn’t an option. We must do something. So get things under way like we discussed. I have my other appointment—I have to make sure I’m at the meeting place in time. I don’t want to miss the girl.” Heller started to leave, then came back holding up his index finger.

  “Come to think of it, Werner. Go ahead and delay it for a bit. Take fingerprints, secure evidence, but only report the case to the public prosecutor’s office after Niesbach has left for the day. I want to see if anyone brings it up with me before it’s official.”

  February 10, 1947: Late Afternoon

  It was still well below freezing, as it had been for days. Heller was starting to worry about feeling so cold all the time. Something was off, as if he had an illness coming on. He tried not to think about Frau Marquart’s nightly coughing attacks.

  He’d just made it to Waldschlösschen on time. His legs ached from his rushed march to the streetcar stop and valiant leap onto the car’s platform as it departed. He checked his watch again. It was past five. He would give Fanny a half hour more, though he immediately regretted his decision, as each minute dragged on. He’d already let two streetcars pass. How easily he could’ve stepped onto one and been at home by now, sitting before the stove. Sometimes his adherence to principle made him mad at himself.

  He bounced on the balls of his feet, raised his shoulders high, and buried his face in his scarf. He wouldn’t be able to wait another half hour. Fifteen minutes maybe.

  “I been watching you a long time,” said a voice off to the side. Heller swung around. Fanny had crept up from behind. She wore her long coat, the baby clearly bundled underneath. A strong smell came off her.

  “I’m glad you came, Fanny,” Heller said.

  “Sigrid, she tells me you’re wanting to take me home and give me food and that. That’d be better for him.” She pointed at her bundle. “Me, I just don’t know if I can trust you. Jörg, he’d like to kill you off, was what he said.” She gave Heller a defiant stare.

  “You can trust me,” Heller said.

  “He’d go bump you right off, he hears I’m with you.”

  “Then he doesn’t need to find out. I’d like to take you and your baby to see a doctor. What’s the boy’s name?”

  “He’s got no name. Aren’t the parents together the ones supposed to give him one?”

  “You, Fanny, are his mother. You have to give him a name.”

  “I’ll think on it. Where’s this doc?”

  “Right nearby.”

  “So you’re really not trying to play with me?”

  Fanny stopped in the middle of the street in front of the barracks. “No, I don’t think I’m going in there.”

  Heller gently took her by the arm and pulled her over to the other side of the street.

  “It’s fine, believe me. Don’t be scared.”

  “But they got so many Russians around here.” Fanny looked around anxiously.

  “What they have most of all is a doctor who can help you.” Heller let go of Fanny and went up to the sentry at the gate. He asked for Kasrashvili in a firm voice and waited. He watched Fanny from the corner of his eye. She approached with caution.

  It took a while, since the soldier had to make a phone call, then he let them pass. Inside, Heller opened his overcoat and enjoyed the warmth. Not that he could relax. He was nervous. He was aware that he was taking a big risk. At the end of the long corridor, a door opened. The Georgian came out of his office. When he saw Fanny, walking his way at a slight distance behind Heller, he tilted his head to the side.

  “Captain,” Heller said. Kasrashvili didn’t respond. He kept looking past Heller, at the girl. Fanny stared back.

  “I have to ask for your help,” Heller began and waved Fanny over. “Come on, show him.”

  She opened her overcoat without taking her eyes off Kasrashvili and unwrapped the dirty cloth.

  “That’s an infant!” the doctor blurted.

  Heller had to suppress a disparaging laugh. “You don’t say. It’s sick. Probably the clap. It needs to be examined along with the girl. We’ll need medicine for both.”

  Kasrashvili took a few seconds, then he gave a gruff, almost angry nod and went back into his office.

  A half hour later, they were back on the street. Fanny and the Georgian hadn’t exchanged a word during the examination. Heller’s coat pockets held pills, sulfur cream for Fanny’s skin rash, and a little bottle of silver nitrate for the boy’s eyes. The remedy was actually meant for prevention, yet Heller was still satisfied. He had also gotten the sense that his visit had nearly been too much for the Georgian. This time there had been no sign of his usual blasé attitude. Heller was sure of one thing: Fanny and the doctor had met before.

  “You know the doctor,” Heller said as they walked to the streetcar stop.

  “He was always sitting in the corner, at the piano,” Fanny muttered, “in Josef�
�s bar.”

  “Did he go see the girls too?”

  “Not me, he didn’t,” Fanny said and kept looking around as they walked.

  “What were those two fighting about in the bar?” Heller asked.

  “One girl was gonna have a baby from a guy there. And he wanted to marry her at some point. But Franz, I guess he got too rough with her because the baby went kaput.”

  “So who was the baby from? The doctor?”

  Fanny grew wary, having noticed that Heller was trying to sound her out. “Nah, no idea. From someone or other.”

  Heller let it be. He didn’t want to wear out what little trust she had in him.

  Heller stood in the kitchen, at the stove, and watched his wife and Fanny strip and wash the skinny baby right on the kitchen table for lack of other options. Karin had warmed up a large pot of water and poured some into a bowl. Fanny stared wide-eyed at how confidently Karin handled the baby. The infant barely resisted. His squawking little voice fell silent when Karin lowered him into the bowl of warm water. He dozed off almost immediately.

  “Why’s he not saying nothing?” Fanny sounded worried.

  “He’s fine. Lying in that warm water is like it was for him in your belly.”

  Fanny looked amazed, her mouth open, and Karin gave Heller a grateful glance.

  For the first time in his life, Heller couldn’t understand his wife’s decision. She had voluntarily imposed an even greater burden on herself. She not only had to take care of the gravely ill Frau Marquart—she’d brought in another mouth to feed and an infant who had to be washed and changed daily.

  And yet she seemed happy, viewing the baby boy as a gift.

  “You’ll have to wash yourself too, Fanny,” Karin said. “Once I’m finished with the little one, you can have the water. I also have a little soap left. You can have some of my clothes. What you have on needs to be washed. Max, please leave the room.”

  Heller nodded and briefly placed a hand on Karin’s shoulder. She leaned her head and brushed her cheek against the back of his hand for a moment.

  Heller shut the kitchen door behind him and sat at the living room table. Klaus, who at his mother’s behest had been up in the attic searching for a mattress and blankets, came back in and sat with Heller at the table.

  “Does the SMAD even know about this?” he asked.

  Heller gave Klaus a pensive look and shook his head.

  Klaus leaned forward, speaking more quietly now. “That’s not good, Father,” he said. “You can’t trust her. You saw that they’re armed. What if that boy comes here, that leader? What if he follows you or she brings him here? You can’t hide that from the Soviets.”

  Heller ran his fingers through his hair. “What am I supposed to do? She couldn’t stay in the woods any longer, not with a baby. And if I reported it to the Soviets, they’d start combing the woods with a whole regiment. You can imagine what that would mean for the children.”

  “But what are you hoping to achieve with this? Are you simply going to leave those children to freeze and starve? And what if they really are responsible for murder? This Fanny, I don’t trust her. She’s only acting naïve.”

  The door opened, and Karin came into the living room. She looked tired.

  “It’s a miracle that tiny thing is still alive. Do we have any schnapps left?” she said.

  Klaus stood to get the bottle and glasses from the cabinet.

  “You never went to the coal office, did you?” Karin asked Heller, staring at him.

  Heller shut his eyes. He’d forgotten.

  But Karin didn’t blame him. “Did you two hear? They want to detonate the Semper Opera House.”

  Heller didn’t understand at first. “But it’s already destroyed.”

  “No, they want it gone altogether, people are saying. To make room for new buildings.”

  “High time that old imperial show-off was gone anyway,” growled Klaus.

  “Now hold on,” Karin countered, “that’s a true landmark.”

  Klaus poured them glasses of schnapps. “Is that even relevant, when there’s such a huge housing crisis?”

  February 10, 1947: Night

  Heller awoke with a start and listened in the darkness. All were asleep, even Karin next to him, her breathing steady and shallow. Blowing up the Semper Opera House—he couldn’t get the thought out of his head. So much had been detonated already. Just look at the bridges. What senseless destruction, one day before the end of the war, as if there hadn’t been enough destruction.

  But that wasn’t what had startled him awake. It had been another thought, and now it kept eluding him. He stood, tossed his overcoat around him, and crept out of the room.

  No sounds came from Frau Marquart’s room. She was sleeping calmly now. Her condition had stabilized, though it wasn’t improving much. Farther down the hallway, right under the window, lay Fanny. Heller went over there in a crouch and observed the girl in the moonlight. She was sleeping soundly. Next to her, in a little nest of a bed that Karin had made, was the infant. Heller flinched as he noticed the boy looking at him. The boy lay there completely still. Heller stretched his hand out and gently stroked the baby’s cheek with his index finger. Suddenly he recalled the thought that had woken him up—he’d figured out where Friedel Schlüter could have been hiding. He quietly went back into the bedroom, took his pistol from his nightstand, and hurried downstairs to call Oldenbusch. It took forever for him to pick up.

  “Where you heading?” Klaus asked after Heller hung up. Heller hadn’t noticed him come from the living room. He’d probably been lying awake again.

  “Into the heath. To the Wolfshügel. You know that stone lookout tower on the hill there, the one they detonated in ’45?”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, Klaus. This is my job. You stay here. Please keep an eye on everything.”

  It was after midnight when they parked the Ford along Bautzner Strasse near the entrance to the Dresden Heath. Oldenbusch was drowsy and in a bad mood, but Heller ignored it.

  “I don’t like leaving the car here,” Oldenbusch muttered.

  “There’s no other way. No one’s passing through at this hour. Do you have your weapon? And a flashlight?”

  Oldenbusch grunted affirmatively.

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Why didn’t we call for reinforcements?”

  “Because I’m not certain I’m right, and because I hope to speak to the boy first.”

  “Ah, so what makes you think Friedel’s even there?”

  “He needs a hideout. He knows the area and wants to stay close. He must have been planning to take all that stuff from the cellar somewhere. It couldn’t have been far.”

  Oldenbusch grunted again, apparently not satisfied with Heller’s answer. The two were soon walking the trail toward the Wolfshügel tower ruins. They left the path before reaching the spot and advanced by ducking low, moving from tree to tree for cover.

  “All this white snow as a backdrop,” Oldenbusch whispered, “makes us easy targets.”

  “Hush!” Heller ordered and released the safety on his pistol. Oldenbusch did the same. On the hill before them was the destroyed lookout tower. Its silhouette reminded Heller of dramatic cliffs or the ruins of a chapel in some Romantic landscape painting from Caspar David Friedrich. The foundation still stood, surrounded by stones and boulders lying in the snow. The entrance was on the rear side, Heller knew.

  “You go around the right, Werner, and I’ll go left. But don’t shoot at me! Best not to shoot at all.”

  Oldenbusch snorted and disappeared.

  They met again on the back side of the foundation.

  “I’m guessing no one’s here,” Oldenbusch whispered.

  “There’s the entrance, see? You smell that, Werner? There was smoke.” Heller pulled out his flashlight but didn’t turn it on. As quietly as possible, he approached the entryway, which was the size of a normal door. He positioned himself to the left of it, O
ldenbusch to the right. Then Heller switched on his flashlight and shined it inside.

  Apart from the leaves and snow that had blown in, it looked empty. Heller could make out the remains of a campfire, and next to it empty cans of food. Suddenly something rustled in the farthest corner of the room. A shock of blond hair rose from under a mound of blankets. “Mother?”

  “Friedel Schlüter? I’m Oberkommissar Heller, Dresden Police. You’re under arrest.”

  The boy’s hands shook as he reached for the cup. Heller had made tea in his office even though it meant having to draw from his own meager stocks.

  Oldenbusch, who had taken the boy’s fingerprints, now sat in the corner of Heller’s office, fighting fatigue.

  Heller took a piece of paper and pencil from his desk and set both before the boy. Friedel Schlüter looked at him in surprise. He was a tall and handsome blond boy with gray eyes and a straight nose. The perfect Aryan, Heller thought.

  “Write the following,” Heller said. “First, the word ‘fascism.’”

  The boy frowned tearfully, clearly having no idea what they were doing with him.

  “Do it. Write ‘fascism,’ then ‘socialism,’ then ‘Bolshevism.’”

  The boy leaned over the page and wrote.

  Heller stretched his neck to see. Then he gave Oldenbusch a telling look: all the words had been written with two s’s at the end.

  Heller didn’t beat around the bush. “Your mother’s sitting in Russian custody because of you. I’m giving you the opportunity to tell us the truth. If you don’t, we’ll hand you over to the Russians first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with fear.

  “Are you responsible for the attack on the Schwarzer Peter bar?”

  Friedel shook his head violently, apparently unable to speak. His chin quivered.

  “Are you responsible for the attack on the Münchner Krug?”

  The boy nodded.

  Heller took a deep breath. “Did you murder Soviet officers Vasili Cherin and Vadim Berinov?”