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

by Frank Goldammer

  “If you weren’t the one, then maybe that Frau Schlüter’s boy?”

  “No, that’s not . . .” Heller fell silent. Ovtcharov had already known about Friedel. He’d had Friedel put into a cell after two hours of interrogation during the night. The Soviets could have reacted fast enough to track down the pastor and force the information out of him, then headed into the woods to find the children.

  “You two know each other, you and Friedel?” Heller asked. “Because you were visiting Frau Dähne?”

  “I know him ’cause he wanted to go putting his thing in me. But I never let him. ’Cause of Jörg and ’cause he wouldn’t give me nothing to eat. He got real mean about it too.”

  Heller would’ve liked to write all this down, but he was afraid it would keep Fanny from talking. “I know you sold yourself at Gutmann’s bar. Did you know a customer named Vasili and another named Vadim?”

  “Could be.”

  “What about Swoboda? Was he fighting with those two?”

  Fanny rolled her eyes as if bored by all the questioning. “There was one girl had something going with this one Russian. He was always giving her chocolate and all that. And that One-Handed Franz? He was a pig, that one, got real rough with her, and that made that other one a real rough bastard too. Then she was sick. ’Cause of him, and then she was dead. That’s what I know. And the Russians were screaming at him, they were gonna send him to Siberia! And then the one got stabbed dead. And then One-Handed Franz, he was gone.”

  Heller couldn’t make much sense of what the girl was saying.

  “His head was inside that backpack you wanted. Did you know that?”

  “Whose head?”

  “One-Handed Franz.”

  Fanny looked at him, and a tentative smile spread across her face, as if she didn’t believe a word Heller was saying.

  “And Gutmann—Josef—how was he?” Heller continued.

  “Sometimes he was fine and sometimes a real bastard. When someone wasn’t playing along, he’d go and give them a good smack. But he didn’t go touching the girls, not with his thing, I mean. He wasn’t so bad.”

  “Fanny, who’s the baby from?”

  “From a Russian, just like I told you! Not sure whose.”

  “So, Jörg, where might he be now?”

  “Got no idea. He knows his way around the woods real good and all the hiding spots.”

  “Max, Fanny, time to eat,” Karin shouted from the kitchen.

  Heller yawned and rubbed his face. “We’ll talk about this again later.”

  When Heller woke, the light had changed. Still groggy, he pushed off the wool blanket and rose from the sofa. He could tell that he had slept far too long. He looked at the clock; it was nearly four in the afternoon. He’d been lying here for three hours.

  It was quiet in the house. Too tired to put his shoes back on, he went into the kitchen in his socks. Maybe there was a bite of something to get his blood flowing. He found a half loaf of bread, light gray and crumbly, with a slightly bitter aftertaste that stayed on his tongue a long time. People said acorns were being used for filler. When he went to open the silverware drawer, he saw it was already slightly open. That wasn’t like Karin. He banished his next thought and pulled the drawer open, looking for the bread knife. He didn’t find it, not in the drawer or anywhere else. Could Karin have the knife in her bag?

  Heller wrapped the bread back in the paper and put it away. He went upstairs. Karin wasn’t up there, and neither Klaus nor Fanny were anywhere to be found either. He checked on Frau Marquart. She lay in her bed and appeared to be sleeping. He approached cautiously and felt her forehead.

  “Max,” she said softly, opened her eyes, and looked at him.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Much better. Thank you so much, dear Max, for everything.” She placed her hand on his, and Heller sat on the chair next to her bed.

  “Karin is the one you should be thanking, not me.”

  Frau Marquart nodded and smiled. “Tell me, is there a baby in the house? I thought maybe I heard one.”

  “There is, yes. It’s from a young woman we’ve taken in for a short while.”

  Frau Marquart smiled again and didn’t want to let go of Heller’s hand.

  “And did you notice our Klaus is here?” Heller said, glad to see Frau Marquart back to taking interest in what was going on.

  “Yes, I saw him. At first, I thought it was you, dear Max. He’s quite serious, isn’t he?”

  Heller nodded, hoping it was only temporary. Then he remembered something. “Frau Marquart, we had to cut down the cherry tree. We needed the wood.”

  To his amazement, she took the news in stride. “It’s just a tree. We’ll plant a new one.”

  The phone rang downstairs in the hallway. Heller stood. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  “I know. Go ahead. I’m just fine.”

  February 11, 1947: Afternoon

  “I thought I sent you home.” Heller tried to smile but failed.

  Oldenbusch gave him a wry grin. “I was at home, but I just couldn’t get the case out of my head. So I took a look at the fingerprints.”

  “Good thing you did.” Heller left it there, and together they waited for Friedel Schlüter to be brought into the interrogation room. Heller didn’t need to keep asking Oldenbusch just how sure he was about this. If his partner wasn’t certain, he wouldn’t have called.

  There finally came a knock on the door. “Come in,” Heller shouted. Two policemen brought Friedel into the room.

  The boy looked completely exhausted and had trouble remaining upright on his chair. His cuffed hands lay in his lap. He stared at the leather doctor’s bag without expression when Oldenbusch set it on the table. Oldenbusch opened it and started pulling out each tool, one at a time. He placed them on the table in a neat row. The severed hands weren’t among them. They’d left those with Dr. Kassner.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” Heller asked the boy.

  Friedel looked up as if just now realizing who was sitting across from him. Then he began shaking his head in a way that seemed like he wouldn’t ever stop. “Where’s Mother?” he asked.

  “She was released. Friedel, we’ve thoroughly examined this bag and the tools. Last night we took fingerprints from the bag and compared them to the ones on the tools. They’re your fingerprints. It’s very clear.”

  The news of his mother’s release had enlivened Friedel for a moment, but now he lowered his head. He said nothing for a while. Eventually he muttered, “Someone stole that from me.”

  “Friedel, you’ve gotten yourself into terrible trouble. Two men were mutilated with those tools.” Heller kept his eyes on the boy every second.

  “Those tools were stolen from me, out of the cellar. They were mine. I never saw that bag before!”

  “Friedel, it won’t always be us asking. When it’s the Soviets standing over you, they’ll want to know if you knew those two deceased Soviet officers and if you were the one who hanged Gutmann.”

  “But I don’t know anything,” the boy said in a dull tone. Heller noticed that the news about Gutmann’s death hadn’t caused him to react any differently.

  “You can stop protecting people. The best thing you can do is talk. Do you know Fanny?”

  The boy finally showed a little emotion. “I might,” he muttered.

  “That’s not an answer,” Heller barked. “Do you know her?”

  “Mother says she’s a whore. She flirts with anyone who has food. Can’t trust her.”

  “And Frau Dähne. You know her?”

  “That old hag—she’s the one who was dragging the girls in to Gutmann. They took them into her house, gave them food, then sold them to Gutmann. Go see for yourself—she’s always got things to eat, and always some meat.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?” Heller sounded stern. “Can you prove this, or is it just something you believe?”

  “The one-handed man used to live with her. Go a
sk around the neighborhood.” The boy was growing angry.

  “We’ll do that. Now, back to the bag. Have you ever seen it before?”

  “No! I’ve never seen it, I’m telling you. The tools were stolen from my cellar. Days before.” Friedel moved to rub his face, but his hands were cuffed. He was grinding his teeth, and his cheeks had turned red. He started blinking nervously.

  “I’ll summarize for you, Friedel,” Heller continued. “Someone stole the tools and used them to mutilate two corpses. Then that same person or persons brought the tools to your hiding place, where we found them. So how did we end up finding your fingerprints on the bag?”

  The dam broke now, and the boy couldn’t stop it. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he sobbed. “Mother, she told me you’d been there, and, and that you’d be coming back for sure. So I tried stowing it all in my hiding place, and suddenly the bag was just there!”

  “Did you look inside? Did you know what was in the bag apart from the tools?”

  “Yes!”

  “So why didn’t you report it—to us, the police?”

  “Because you’d just pin it on me anyway! You were the ones who put that bag there. Mother says you’re all in the Russians’ pocket,” he blurted in despair.

  “I’m not planning on pinning anything on you. It’s just that I find it hard to believe that someone put that bag in your cellar. Who would have done it?”

  “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell you?” Friedel screamed in agony.

  “Take it easy, Friedel,” Heller told him. Even though the evidence did speak against him, the boy’s despair was nevertheless real—of that Heller had no doubt. “Tell me about Fanny. Have you spoken with her? Where did you first see her?”

  Friedel wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, sniffed, and sucked snot back up. “That Frau Dähne, she brought her home one day. Last winter. I never talked to her much. She acts dumb, but she’s not.” The splotches on Friedel’s face were now dark red. Something was gnawing at him, and he kept crying.

  “What about you? Did you know Gutmann betrayed your mother to the Russians?”

  “Of course, but I didn’t kill him. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “What about Armin Weiler—you know him too?”

  “From the printing company.” Friedel sobbed in spurts.

  “Did he know something about you and your family? Was he blackmailing you?”

  “Mother says he’s a traitor. When the war was still on, he reported the old pastor for hiding a pack of lowlife Jews in his church. Now that pig’s with the Russians, filling his belly.”

  “Those were his hands in that bag, Friedel.”

  The boy lurched forward, against the tabletop, pressing his face into the crook of his arm. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he whimpered. “I just want everything to be like it was. Without any Russians! I want our German Reich back, the way it was, and our house, and my daddy.”

  Heller checked his watch for the third time. Tonight was the cultural event that he and Karin were supposed to attend. He still had some time, but by no means did he want to arrive late. He stood with about thirty other people at the Unity Square stop, waiting for the streetcar that refused to arrive. He went over his questioning of Friedel Schlüter one more time. Should he believe the boy? Had Friedel really just found the bag in his cellar? If so, who had put it there? It had to be someone who knew that Friedel was under suspicion. If he couldn’t find any other suspects, he would have no choice but to stick to the facts. Heller knew how important it was to leave his feelings out of it, but this kid was a victim too, in a way, a child missing a father who was never coming back.

  He looked at his watch again. The sky was already dimming in the east. More passengers were gathering by the minute.

  “Excuse me, have you heard if there’s a power outage?” a woman asked him. She bore a heavy bulging backpack, probably holding coal or potatoes. Heller couldn’t tell. Then the streetcar finally came.

  It was already overloaded with passengers, and hardly anyone stepped out. Yet everyone tried to climb onto the running boards anyway.

  “Come on!” a man yelled to encourage the woman with the big backpack, holding out a hand to her and giving her some of his grab handle. Heller squeezed in next to them. The bell rang, and the streetcar continued on, past Martin Luther Strasse and Deaconess Hospital. At every stop, more people tried to climb on. But no one complained. They simply helped each other.

  “She must have a whole piggy in that pack,” someone joked, and everyone laughed.

  February 11, 1947: Evening

  It was a long distance for Karin and Max to cover on foot later that night. The streetcars weren’t running anymore, and it had been impossible for Heller to arrange other transportation on such short notice. Either there was no gasoline, or car tires were shot out, or the Soviets had claimed all the remaining cars for themselves. Not even the Cultural Association, the founder of the event, could spare a car for the Hellers. Even on snow-covered roads, a car would have made the trip in just ten minutes. Yet now they were forced to walk first up the Rissweg, then down Bautzner Landstrasse out of the city until they reached Ullersdorfer Strasse, where the Bühlau Spa Hotel stood. Ordinarily, the two miles would have posed no problem. But the icy wind whipped, and the snowy sidewalks were slippery. Hidden beneath the fresh snow were potholes that made pedestrians stumble. Karin and Heller walked arm in arm, and he wondered when they had last done that. He couldn’t remember.

  The darkness caught up with them now, and Heller regretted going. He knew he would see Medvedev, Ovtcharov, and probably Kasrashvili as well, since he was cultural advisor to the local military and head of the choir. It was a good thing to be seen at official events, and he would use the occasion to find out whether word of Gutmann’s supposed suicide was getting around. Yet he was mostly going for Karin’s sake. He knew she was longing for this evening. He needed to indulge her. After all the deprivation of the past few years, he wanted to take her out for once, where it would be warm, where there would be food and music, where for a few hours the worries of everyday life could be forgotten. Karin had been taking care of everyone for far too long—severely ill Frau Marquart, Klaus, and now Fanny and her baby too. Heller’s conscience had been slowly gnawing away at him, because he knew he didn’t help out enough and had devoted too much of himself to his job.

  He had secretly given Klaus his pistol and told him about the missing bread knife. He hadn’t told Karin, though, not wanting to worry her. He also hadn’t admitted to her that he didn’t trust Fanny. The girl seemed happy and was caring for her baby in her naïve, childlike way. But the knife hadn’t turned up. Klaus had taken the pistol from him, and Heller spared him any fatherly caution. It wasn’t necessary. Klaus was now a grown man. The war had robbed so many people of their souls and had changed so many others’ forever. Heller sighed.

  “Why are you sighing?” Karin asked, squinting at the snowflakes blowing into her eyes.

  “I’m thinking about Klaus, wondering if he’ll ever be happy again.”

  Karin squeezed his hand. “He will,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”

  The Bühlau Spa Hotel was lit up, and lots of vehicles were parked out front. The drivers stood smoking in little groups. Heller spotted two police trucks and at least twenty armed policemen in uniform. Warmly bundled Soviet soldiers with machine guns stood guard as well, smoking and looking around. On the bed of a Russian truck, Heller thought he saw a mounted machine gun.

  Karin didn’t notice any of it. She strode up to the entrance all excited, her eyes reflecting the warm light coming from the banquet room windows. Here, in April of ’46, the regional associations of the Socialist and Communist Parties had agreed to unite. Now the hotel was being used for a celebration.

  They were first checked by a Soviet, then a German sentry, and each time they showed their invitation and papers. Heller saw armed soldiers in the foyer too. Were they really that concerned about an attack?


  They gave up their coats at the cloakroom. Karin was a little sheepish, smoothing and tugging at the dress that she’d gotten from Frau Marquart; she’d altered it quite some time ago. It was a summer dress, red with white dots, fairly simple, ruffled at the waist with a collar that could be unbuttoned a little.

  Heller hadn’t seen her in it before and couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “What are you looking at?” Karin whispered to him with concern.

  “You’re lovely,” Heller whispered back, smiling at her.

  “Please, in this old thing?” Karin said, flushing a little. Heller offered her his arm, and she took it, so they could enter the hall together.

  The banquet hall seemed enormous. The high walls were decorated with garlands and red flags. Gold chandeliers hung from the white vaulted ceiling, making the polished parquet floor glisten. Round tables covered with white tablecloths stood around the room. At the rear, a stage had been erected, with a piano on it and risers for the choir.

  Now Heller was the one feeling underdressed in his old tight-fitting suit and the same shoes he always wore because he had no others. His white shirt came from deceased Herr Marquart’s wardrobe, and Karin had sewn his black bowtie herself.

  Yet Heller lost his unease once he looked around, seeing that most of the guests had also shown up in threadbare dresses and suits. Only the Soviet officers wore shiny black boots and their best uniforms, with polished medals glittering.

  Heller didn’t know any of the guests who had already gathered. So he steered Karin toward the stage, where he found Kasrashvili, just as he’d hoped. Kasrashvili sat in the shadows offstage, glancing at a sheet of music, looking bored. The Georgian looked up.

  “Oberkommissar Heller,” he said, then shook Karin’s hand and gave her a hint of a bow. He shook Heller’s hand too.

  Heller introduced the doctor. “This is Captain Kasrashvili. Captain, my wife.”

  Kasrashvili nodded, then returned his attention to the sheet of music. It was clear that he didn’t want to engage in a conversation with Karin present. Karin let go of Heller’s arm. “I want to go see if I know anyone,” she said to excuse herself, leaving the two men alone.