Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  “If you put a sack over her head, I suppose it would be possible,” Storf retorted.

  Berg laughed jovially, then picked up two piles of paper from the desk, handing one to Storf and the other to Müller, who asked what they were looking for.

  “You’ll know it when you see it.” Berg took a third stack, mostly political leaflets, material that would have been passed out during Munich’s numerous rallies. Sorting through the papers under poor lighting, Berg found two pamphlets that were marked up by hand with marginal notes and underlining. One was entitled A Summons to the Kameraden, the other Workers of the World: pieces of Russian propaganda that invited German workers to wake up to the call and join the great Socialist cause. “Apparently Marlena, like Anna Gross, flirted with Kommunismus.”

  Müller said, “Haven’t these women got better things to do than to stir up trouble?”

  Berg turned to Storf. “In the course of your interview with Fräulein Schulweiss, did she express any interest in Kommunismus?”

  Ulrich’s mouth turned sour. “We talked about Marlena, Axel, not politics. With an air of distaste, Fräulein Schulweiss described Druer as wild and bohemian. Though she was upset by Marlena’s murder, I think she would be appalled if she knew her sister’s friend was interested in an abomination.”

  Müller said, “If Marlena was a Kommunist, why would she associate with staunch conservative people like the Schulweisses?”

  “They gave her respectability,” Berg said. “Allowed her to penetrate circles not otherwise available to her. At least, we are detecting a pattern, no? Two bourgeois women with Kommunist leanings: A political motive for the murders is looking better.”

  Müller looked up from his papers. “You think it’s some fanatical anti-Kommunist?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Storf said. “There are a lot bigger animals to hunt than these pathetic women who dress like aristocrats, fanning themselves with peacock feathers while embracing proletariat causes.”

  “Both women had money,” Berg said. “If you want to weaken a cause, cut off its source of income.” He held up the papers. “Someone has to pay for these pamphlets and for all the professional political agitators.” He squinted in the murky glow of the lamps. “Let’s sort the papers by date . . . if they’re dated. We are looking for references to the mysterious Russian or to Robert Schick.”

  The men worked in silence for fifteen minutes. When the papers were properly stacked, Berg began to go through the desk drawers. One of them contained a locked steel box. Storf looked up with interest.

  “Money?”

  Berg rattled the container. “Perhaps.” He took a pocketknife from his boot and worked the tip into the lock. It was of very poor quality and popped open without much prodding. Inside were a bundled stack of letters and a thick wad of new marks. “Herrjemine! This woman could have supported a lot more than a few proletarians!”

  “How much?” Müller asked anxiously.

  Berg exhaled as he counted out the bills. “Almost five hundred new marks. It is clear from this find that no one has been in the room since her disappearance.”

  “Who was it meant for?”

  “Lord only knows.” There was a moment of silence. Wordlessly, Berg counted out one hundred fifty marks apiece. The three men pocketed the bills.

  “What are you doing with the remainder?” Müller asked.

  “It will be recorded along with the rest of Marlena Druer’s effects.”

  “Why leave so much, Axel? It makes much more sense that she would have traveled with her money, no?”

  “That brings up a good point,” Storf said. “Why didn’t she take this much money with her?”

  “Fear of robbery,” Müller said. “Way too much to carry around in these dangerous times.”

  Storf said, “But she’d leave it here? In this dump?”

  Müller answered, “No one would dream that she traveled with this much cash. And perhaps no one except the Schulweisses knew she was here.”

  “The better question is what had she planned to do with the money?” Berg divvied up the letters. “Let’s find out a bit about her personal life, shall we?”

  “And the rest of the money, Axel?” Müller persisted.

  Berg said, “She was carrying around this fortune for a reason. If we find the reason but leave behind no money, it will cast suspicion on all of us. We were blessed with good fortune. Let’s not spit at the fates, hmmm?”

  After five minutes of sifting through Marlena’s correspondence, Storf looked up. “Our luck is still with us. Here is our Schwabing Soviet.” He handed Berg the letter.

  My Dearest Lady—

  I count the days until your arrival, my most beautiful and elegant woman. How fortunate is my luck to have made your acquaintance and so much more. There is no way for me, a man made meager by the whimsy of fate and the wickedness of hatred, to repay you for all your goodness, generosity, and support. I will do my most profound best to ensure that your goodwill is not in vain, and that in the future, Munich will be liberated from the loathsome, petty burghers who feast upon Germany’s good citizens. May our days together be filled with excitement and drama and the personal connection we dream about. Until we meet, may I forever remain in your heart as well as your debt.

  With true fondness and deepest gratitude and, dare I say it, love,

  Robert

  “Robert,” Berg said out loud. “There’s our link. He appears to be Marlena’s paramour . . . although she wasn’t the one with semen inside of her. I wonder if she was pregnant?”

  “Why?”

  “A motive to kill. Two women, both pregnant, and a man who doesn’t want either of them.” Berg gave the letter to Müller. “Although in the context of this letter, it appears that Fräulein Druer was more interested in politics. She appears to be financing something very big.”

  “Like a major rally?” Müller said. “That is not so big. Just hire a bunch of hooligans or schoolboys to pass out the leaflets. They cost next to nothing.”

  “Yes, hooligans cost nothing,” Berg said. “Good military soldiers are more expensive.”

  Müller said, “She was financing a putsch?”

  “And why not? It almost worked for Herr Hitler. With a little bit more planning and a lot more money, who knows what could have happened?”

  “Do you think it was this Robert who was responsible for both Anna’s and Marlena’s deaths?”

  Berg said, “It would seem pointless for Robert to murder a woman who was supporting him.”

  “Maybe something changed her mind,” Storf said.

  “Like what?” Müller asked.

  The men thought a moment. Berg said, “If this is Robert Schick, the same one who was very well acquainted with Anna Gross, maybe Marlena was jealous of his relationship with Anna. We know that Anna was involved with someone.”

  Müller said, “So Marlena found out about Anna and decided to cut off her support for Robert?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But why would Robert kill Druer?”

  “It was accidental,” Berg said. “They fought, and things became rough. Or perhaps Marlena threatened to tell Anna’s husband of her affair with Robert. Robert killed Marlena to silence her.”

  Müller said, “Axel, I thought you told us that the maid implied there was no affair?”

  “Out of loyalty—she was covering for her mistress.”

  “Didn’t you just say this was a political murder?” Storf said.

  “I don’t know anything for certain, Ulrich; I am entertaining possibilities.”

  There was a pause. Then Müller said, “I need a smoke.”

  The three men lit up. Within moments, the room became clouded in nicotine. Storf exhaled a puff of rancid air. “Axel, even if we assume for a moment that Robert Schick murdered Marlena Druer . . . why would he then murder Anna Gross? Remember she was killed after Marlena.”

  “Maybe Anna found out about Marlena’s murder
and threatened to go to the police. A quick romp in the hay is one thing. Hiding a murder is quite another.”

  “How would Anna Gross know about Marlena’s death when we just discovered it?”

  Berg shrugged. “Maybe Robert Schick told her.”

  “That is not credible,” Storf said.

  “Just a thought,” Berg said.

  “Maybe the two murders are unrelated,” Storf told him.

  “That is another thought.” Berg held up the letter. “However, if this Robert turns out to be Robert Schick, that is more than a coincidence.” He glanced at the letter. “It has no last name, but there is a return address and it’s not too far from here.” Berg checked his watch. It was half past six. “Shall we pay a visit?”

  “It’s been a long day,” Müller said. “I doubt if he’ll be in. Perhaps it’s better if we wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “And let this man slip from our grasp?” Berg frowned. “I will not take that chance. If you don’t want to accompany me, I’ll go alone.”

  Storf shrugged. “I’ll go with you, Axel.”

  “You two leave me no choice.” Müller rolled his eyes. “What do we do with her belongings?”

  Berg looked around. Under the bed, he found a leather valise, unlocked and empty. “Put everything in here.”

  “Including the money box?” Müller said. “Isn’t it going to look odd to our fellow police that the lock is broken and there is still cash inside?”

  “We shall tell them the truth,” Axel said. “That we broke open the lock. That there is still money inside is evidence of our honesty.” He looked at his colleagues. “What occurred in this room remains between the three of us. Agreed?”

  Müller said, “Agreed.”

  “Ulrich?” Berg said.

  “Of course, of course,” Storf said.

  “So why the long face?” Müller asked him.

  “Where do I hide so much cash?”

  “You don’t hide it, you spend it.” Müller’s expression became lecherous. “That is what whores are for.”

  TWENTY

  The little man blocked the door, his wiry mustache trembling with anger at the police intrusion.

  “I tell you, Herr Schick is not in his room! And I will not allow strangers rummaging through his personal effects—”

  “We are not strangers, we are the police!” Storf told him.

  The desk clerk wasn’t much of a physical specimen. Short and stout, but more flab than muscle. Berg could have easily dealt with the obstruction with a single push. But diplomacy often worked as well as physical force. “If you are worried, you may accompany us to his room. This will assure you that we will take nothing.”

  The little man reddened. “I hadn’t assumed for a moment that you’d take anything!”

  “This little discussion is throwing off our schedule.” Berg tapped his pocket watch. “You are not going to prevent us from going to his room. So get the key and let’s go upstairs.”

  “I cannot leave my post,” the little man said.

  “Then give us the key.” Berg became irritated. “Come, man. It’s late and we have families!”

  Reluctantly, the clerk handed Berg a ring of keys. “Bring it down when you’re done.”

  “Which key is it?” Berg asked.

  The little man shrugged with indifference, then pointed to the stairs. “Fifth floor.”

  Slowly, the men trudged up the steps. When they got to the correct room, Berg began feeding the skeleton keys into the lock. The first key didn’t fit, nor did the second. Berg cursed as he worked the locks. His grumblings brought out a neighbor.

  “Excuse me?” the man said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Spoken with an English accent. The man was rail thin and hadn’t a single hair on his head, which was smooth and round as a baby’s behind. He wore a crumpled black suit and a gray shirt that had once been white. No tie. The man had probably slept in his clothes. Berg snarled out, “Police business. Please go back to your room, sir.”

  “I doubt you’ll have any luck even if you find the correct key.”

  Berg looked up from his task. “Pardon?”

  “Lord Robert left yesterday . . . took all his baggage with him.”

  “Lord Robert?” Müller said. “He is aristocracy?”

  The bald Englishman smiled. “That is how he introduced himself. But I have my doubts.”

  Storf took out a pad. “And your name is?”

  “Michael Green. I’m a reporter for the London Eagle.” He extended his hand to Berg. “And you are . . .”

  “Inspektor Axel Berg of the Mordkommission.” He shook Green’s hand, then took out Gerhart Leit’s sketch of the man who had been with Anna the night she died. “Are we speaking about the same man?”

  Green studied the picture for just a moment. “That very well could be him. If you give me that sketch, I’ll put it in the paper for you.”

  “I think not,” Berg answered. “You are English, sir, but not exactly.”

  “Good ear,” Green answered. “American. Born and raised in Boston. I went to university at Oxford and never left. What do you want with Lord Robert? Oh, I forgot. You are the police. You ask the questions.”

  Berg’s lips formed a small sneer. “I see you understand the German way. Tell us about Lord Robert.”

  “Why should I?” Green said.

  “Because I have the power to arrest you,” Berg said.

  “On what grounds?” Green said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Berg said. “That is also the German way.” He tried another key, and this time his efforts met with success. He opened the door, and switched on an electric light, staring into an immaculately made-up room devoid of any belongings. Berg swore under his breath.

  Boldly, Green marched through the door and scratched his bald head. “Told you so.”

  Berg spoke to his men. “It does not look promising, but let’s go through the drawers anyway.”

  Green ambled about the sterile space with his hands in his pockets. “So what do the police really think about Herr Hitler?”

  “Can you kindly step out and let us do our job?” Müller said.

  “Nothing to do.” Storf slammed the closet door shut. “There is nothing here.”

  “I told you he left with all his baggage.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” Berg asked Green.

  “Not to me, but why would he? I barely knew the man.”

  Müller said, “So tell us what you do know about Lord Robert Schick.”

  “Schick?” Green arched his brows. “He told me his name was Robert Hurlbutt.”

  Berg looked under the bed, then stood up. “The downstairs clerk knew him as Robert Schick. It appears the man has a few aliases.”

  The American smiled. “Robert was a puzzler.”

  “How so?” Berg asked.

  Green thought a moment. “He spoke a serviceable English, but not the most educated English. This is not surprising. Many Englishmen with fathers in the diplomatic corps have been raised in other countries, so their English might not be as refined as that of the native born. But the accent bothered me. If you have an English father who speaks to you in English, your English shouldn’t have a Continental accent.”

  “What country?” Müller asked.

  “Maybe German, maybe Russian. Perhaps a mixture.”

  “How was his German?” Müller asked.

  “To my foreign ear, it sounded fluent and beautiful. He spoke very poetically and used many long words. That also made me suspicious. Who was he trying to impress?”

  Müller said, “Any ideas?”

  “If you ask me, he’s what we call an impostor in English.”

  “A Hochstapler,” Berg translated.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Hochstapler—although I don’t know what his game was. I have been around the English peerage. They are all pompous asses, but with Hurlbutt, there was definitely something off.”

  Berg took o
ut his notepad. “Off in what way?”

  “As a reporter you have a sixth sense about these kinds of things . . . who’s lying and so forth. He was smooth, but most con men are.”

  “Con men?”

  Green gave a hint of a smile. “I have seen several well-dressed ladies come in and go out of his apartment. A curious sort would ask what they were doing there.”

  Berg smiled. “And did you ask?”

  A pinkish tinge dotted the American’s cheeks. “I’m a reporter, so of course I asked. He said his relationship with the women was strictly a professional one. And I never did get any solid evidence of impropriety. No breathless noises, at least. And let me tell you, these walls are thin. You could knock a hole through with a single blow.”

  “Was this lady one of his guests?” Berg showed him the picture of Marlena Druer.

  “This lady looks dead.”

  “Yes or no.”

  Green sighed. “I couldn’t say yes or no.”

  Out came Anna Gross’s photograph. “How about this one?”

  Again Green hedged. “I think . . . yes. But I wouldn’t swear to it. I don’t spend a lot of time in my room.” The American paused. “She looks alive. Is she?”

  “And what profession did Lord Robert profess to be engaged in?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I know I didn’t,” Berg said. “Still, it would behoove you as a foreigner to answer mine.”

  “Tough guy, huh?” Green smiled. “Lord Robert never elaborated. I think it was conning women out of money.”

  “Any specific reason to think that?” Storf said.

  “No, not really. Just . . . certain things paint a certain picture.”

  Berg said, “Thank you for the information, Herr Green; you have been most helpful.”

  The American regarded Berg, unable to ascertain if the Inspektor was putting him on. “You’re welcome.”

  “If Lord Robert should return, I would like you to tell me immediately.” He handed Green his card.

  “All right,” Green said. “Now how about helping me out? You said you’re from the Mordkommission. You show me a picture of at least one dead woman. I’ve got to ask: What has Lord Robert got to do with the two murdered women in the papers?”