Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  Storf looked up. “Recent?”

  “Pale, but I could see them.”

  “How did he explain them?”

  “Shaving nicks.”

  “It could be that,” Müller said.

  Berg said, “Or it could be wounds that Regina Gottlieb inflicted on him while defending herself.”

  “But why would he murder her?”

  “He despised Jews. And Regina claimed that Frau Schoennacht owed her money. Maybe he didn’t want to pay.”

  Storf crossed his legs and regarded Berg. “I doubt that a man like Rolf Schoennacht would risk his position in the community to kill a lowly Jewess.”

  Berg would not give up. “But then why lie about being in all night, especially since he knew the truth was bound to come out? All he had to say was that he was at the club, and we’d verify it. Then he’d automatically be eliminated as a suspect.”

  Müller said, “Maybe it just seemed simpler to lie.”

  Storf shrugged. “Or perhaps he wasn’t at any club, Axel. What if he was at a Nazi meeting or with his mistress and he didn’t want you poking around into his personal business. Even clever men like Schoennacht do foolish things when they feel cornered.”

  “At least we have a motive for Schoennacht wanting her dead. And we also have the scratches as possible evidence.” Berg sighed. “Which is more than we have with the other two women . . . although Anna was married to a Jew.” He perked up. “There’s the Jewishness in common.”

  “So why not murder Anton Gross, who is a Jew?” Storf said. “Why murder his wife?”

  “It could be that Schoennacht hates women,” Berg said. “Professor Kolb thinks that our fiend has an unresolved relationship with his mother that causes him to take out his anger on women.”

  Storf said, “Axel, we cannot arrest a man based on some lunatic theories promulgated by a disturbed Jewish madman who is Austrian at that. We are members of the Mordkommission, not head doctors. Let’s keep to the facts.”

  “You’re in a mood today.” Berg smiled. “Last night’s date did not go well?”

  Storf muttered, “If the fiend hated women, it is not so hard to understand why.”

  Berg signaled the Kellner for another beer and pointed to Storf. “We’ve all had those thoughts, but very few of us act upon them.”

  A minute later the waiter brought Storf another pint. Ulrich sat back in his chair. “What are the facts?”

  Berg wiped foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let us start at the beginning. We had the murder of a woman who was last seen with a mystery man. Gerhart Leit identified Anna Gross in a picture and remembered seeing her with a gentleman at his Kabarett. I drew a sketch of the mystery man under Leit’s guidance. Gross’s maid identified the man in the sketch as a mysterious Russian who had visited Anna. And in her personal effects we found a card from an unidentified man named Robert Schick. And that was as far as we got with Anna because her husband was arrested for her murder, then beaten to death on the streets before we could do anything. Has anyone anything to add?”

  Storf and Müller were silent.

  “Murder two: Marlena Druer. Her body was found near the location of Anna Gross’s body. She seemed to have been murdered by the same hand because both of them were strangled with a chain. Marlena was described as a wealthy, eccentric, independent woman. We went through her personal belongings and found not only a great deal of cash, but also a letter from a man named Robert. No surname, but an address. We went to that address—a flophouse—and we found an American reporter named Michael Green, who identified the mystery man in my sketch as an Englishman named Robert Hurlbutt.”

  Storf scoffed. “Who can trust an American?”

  “A good point, Ulrich, except that the use of the Christian name Robert gives a consistency to the entire tale. So far, everything points to a man named Robert. Even the Russian lute player who identified the mystery man as a Russian masking as an aristocrat remembered someone calling him Ro—a name close to Robert.”

  “A Russian aristocrat named Robert?” Storf smiled. “That’s a new one.”

  “The man is a Hochstapler. Impostors use aliases for a reason. Sometimes they are chosen because they sound like the person’s actual name.”

  “Then it is a stupid alias,” Müller said.

  “Not so, Georg. If you use an alias, you have to remember it.”

  Storf added, “Or he could be assuming the identity of someone he admires.”

  Berg nodded in agreement. “From Ro to Robert Schick to Robert Hurlbutt. The American told us that Hurlbutt is a famous name at Harvard University. So maybe our impostor also wants to be an American.”

  “God knows why,” Storf snarled. “They are brash and ill-mannered.”

  “They won the war.” Berg was going over his words in his mind. “So far he may be Russian, German, English aristocracy—or pretending to be English aristocracy—or an American.”

  “Ro for Robert,” Storf said suddenly. “Ro for Rolf.”

  Berg looked at him. How could he have been so dense?

  “I don’t have the sketch in front of me,” Storf said, “but you’re the artist. Does he look like the man in the sketch?”

  Berg thought about it. He wanted so badly to say yes, but caution held him back. “Not exactly . . . but perhaps, if he was wearing a disguise. For instance, Schoennacht is bald. Now if he were wearing a wig . . .”

  Storf said, “What does Herr Schoennacht do again?”

  “He’s an art dealer, currently on his way to visit clients in Paris and The States.”

  “So he must speak English.”

  Again Berg knocked his head for his stupidity. At least, Storf was thinking. “I would assume so.”

  “Did you detect any accent in his German?”

  “Not really, but I wasn’t listening for one, either. To me, he was clearly Bavarian.” His brain was buzzing with ideas. “Look at Putzi Hanfstaengl—German father, American mother, American wife.”

  Müller said, “Also an art dealer. I wonder if the two are related?”

  “I don’t know if they’re related, but they must know each other. The art world is very small.” Berg looked up at the sky. The sun was getting stronger, beating down on his neck. He removed his coat and laid it across his lap. “Gerhart Leit said an interesting thing when I interviewed him . . . that our mystery man was very tall, the Putzi Hanfstaengl type.”

  Ulrich smiled. “So you are suggesting that Hanfstaengl is our murderer.”

  “He speaks fluent German and English.” Berg laughed. “Stranger things have happened. I wonder if . . . How would I set up an interview without arousing suspicion?”

  “Berg, you can’t be serious!” Müller was appalled. “He is a big supporter of the police. I will not be a party to this!”

  “Fine, Georg, I’ll do it on my own.”

  “You would do well to find evidence first. At least with Schoennacht, you have a scratched face.”

  “Schoennacht . . .” Storf said. “Is his wife German?”

  “French.”

  “His parents?”

  “I don’t know.” Berg shrugged. “The American Green mentioned something interesting—that Robert Hurlbutt’s father could have been in the diplomatic corps. We should find out who in Bavaria has been in the diplomatic corps, especially those assigned to Russia and to English-speaking countries.”

  “And ask them what, Berg?” Storf said. “Have you been murdering any women lately?”

  “We’re not interested in them, but in their sons.”

  “And that makes them more accessible?” Müller said.

  “Do either of you have any ideas to put forth, or is your sole job making my ideas look ridiculous?”

  “Then how about this?” Storf said. “Gross and Druer were libertine women. What if they both met the wrong man at one of their Kommunist meetings? Some kind of German Jack the Ripper who likes killing whores. If you like picking on Hitler’s inner circle, pick a
lso on the Kosmopoliten who partake in questionable activities.”

  “He has a point, Axel,” Müller said.

  “Regina Gottlieb wasn’t a wealthy Kosmopolit. She was a poor Jewish seamstress.”

  Storf stifled a smile and looked into his beer. “You know as well as I do, Axel, that there are quite a few Jewish whores out there.”

  Instantly, Berg felt himself turn hot and angry. “There is no indication that Regina Gottlieb was a whore.”

  “How do you know that? Have you investigated her habits?”

  Berg was silent and fuming, but Storf was right. The life of Regina Gottlieb needed to be investigated, since most murder victims were killed by people they knew. “I will investigate Regina Gottlieb. Still, I see some merit in this son-of-a-diplomat theory. We need to proceed cautiously, though. Right now, all I want to do is compile a list. Once we have names, we’ll narrow down our search.”

  Storf said, “And how will we get these diplomats to speak to us?”

  “If it comes to that, we’ll have to convince them about the gravity of the situation—three murdered women, after all.” So much to do and so many questions. Berg said, “I was on holiday when Gottlieb was murdered. Where in the Englischer Garten was her body found?”

  Müller said, “Very near the shrubbery where we found Anna Gross.”

  “Who found the body?”

  Müller chided him with a smile. “You really should read the file, Axel.”

  Georg was right, but his self-righteous tone annoyed Berg. “I skimmed it in the Kommissar’s office.” He stared at Müller. “Is there something particular I should know?”

  “Regina Gottlieb’s body was discovered by Anders Johannsen while on his early morning walk with his dogs.”

  “The same man who found Marlena Druer?” Berg sat up in his seat. “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “Because I thought you read the file.”

  Berg could barely contain his rage. “And neither one of you thought that he was worth looking into again?”

  “Relax, Axel, Messersmit interviewed the man while you were gone,” Müller said. “He was as frightened as a mouse, telling Heinrich that it was positively the last time he was going to walk his dear poochy poos in that awful park.”

  THIRTY

  From the outside, it appeared as if no one was home in the apartment. The drapes were drawn tightly across the windows that fronted the street. Still, Berg made the four-story climb up the stairs, intending to slip his calling card into the door. On impulse, he knocked and was answered by ferocious barking on the other side. He waited several moments, and then the deep barking died down, replaced by high-pitched yips.

  He heard footsteps, then a shaky voice on the other side asked who it was.

  Over the yipping, Berg answered, “Police. I’m looking for Herr Anders Johannsen.”

  The door opened but just a crack. “What do you want?”

  “Herr Johannsen?”

  “Yes. I already talked to the police. Twice. Go away.”

  “Please, Herr Johannsen, just a few minutes of your time.”

  The door closed, leaving Berg in the hallway, feeling stupid and small. He had limped up forty-four steps for nothing. But then he heard something rattle. Was it the chain lock on the front door or the clatter of the dogs’ collars as they steadied themselves to attack?

  Slowly the door creaked open, revealing a withered man in a bathrobe. He was tall and one of the palest men Berg had ever seen. White translucent skin like an onion, with sunken dark blue eyes that quickly blackened with the introduction of light. He was holding a muff of fur, white except for brown eyes peeking through. In the background, Berg could hear a low, menacing growl.

  “Inspektor Axel Berg of Munich’s Mordkommission. May I come in, Herr Johannsen?”

  There was a long pause, then the pale man stepped aside. Now it was Berg’s turn to hesitate.

  “And you have another dog, mein Herr?”

  “Otto. Yes.”

  “He is restrained?”

  “He won’t hurt you unless I tell him to do so. He’s very well trained.”

  Little comfort, but Berg would have to take his chances. “I may come in now?”

  “Yes, yes. Come in.”

  Berg followed the pale man into a somber front room, and though Otto was nowhere in sight, the growling could be distinctly heard. Johannsen pointed to a dark velvet settee, then parted the thick drapes. Dusty sunlight instantly shot through the room.

  The old man squinted as he looked out the window. “I see we actually have blue in the sky today.”

  “It is a beautiful day to go walking.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve taken too many walks, it seems.”

  Berg sat down on the deep purple settee. He took in a small, fastidious apartment. The artwork on the walls was of high quality—full of life and color—but Berg’s eyes were immediately drawn to the Otto Dix war painting, similar to the Lustmord series, but the bodies were all men. “You have interesting taste in art.”

  The tall man turned around and glared at him. “Are you being facetious?”

  The vehemence took Berg aback. “Not at all. I am especially taken with the Matisse dancing girls. Such kinetics in so few lines. And the Dix—such . . . power!”

  Johannsen’s eyes went from Berg’s face to the drawing. “I am surprised that you would like such pieces. The other two men I spoke with were barbarians.”

  “The other two men being . . .”

  The pale man waved in the air. “Those awful policemen. Inspektor Müller was just an oaf, but Messersmit was positively bestial. That man actually implied that I had something to do with the horrible murders of those two women.” Johannsen was flushed. “When in doubt, blame the victim.”

  “It must have been very upsetting for you . . . to discover a second body.”

  “It was upsetting to discover the first body. The second one was dreadful!” He paced back and forth in the small room, holding his lapdog in one hand and flapping his other hand as he spoke. “Maybe you’re used to such gruesome events, but I assure you that I am not!”

  A deep moan was coming from another room.

  “Poor Otto,” Johannsen said. “He’s not used to seeing me so apoplectic. I must let him out or he will show his displeasure in destructive ways.” The man whispered, “He chews on the piano legs! He knows it drives me crazy.”

  Before Berg could protest, the tall man was out of the room. Moments later he was dragging in a beast by a chain.

  Actually, the beast was dragging him: a monster dog gray and thick, with tremendous maws, jowls dripping down excess flesh far past the animal’s mandible. Foam and spittle escaped from its lips. Dense, defined muscles rippled with each step. It must have weighed nearly one hundred kilos. Immediately, it charged toward Berg, shoving its fearsome face into his lap, sniffing and drooling over his shirt. Normally Berg liked dogs, but this brute was so huge, it would give any animal lover pause. Berg didn’t move, waiting for the idiot Johannsen to call off the beast. Seconds passed before anyone spoke.

  “Ah, Otto likes you,” Johannsen said with a smile. “His tail is wagging.”

  Suddenly a rough tongue washed Berg’s face. “Perhaps you can convince Otto to settle down so we can talk, Herr Johannsen.”

  The tall man jerked on the chain, and the dog retreated into a sitting position. “Platz.” Another jerk on the chain. “Platz, Otto. Down.” Finally the beast flopped down on the wooden floor, his head nudged against Berg’s boot. “He’s just one big baby, you know. I’ve never been threatened but I wonder what he would do if I were really attacked.”

  “And you worry about being attacked?” Berg asked.

  “Of course, I worry. Despite the city’s assurances, the streets are crawling with thugs looking for targets to beat up.”

  “The disorder is exaggerated, limited to a few areas and a few of a specific ethnic persuasion.”

  “Nonsense. After the Jews and the Gypsie
s, he will go after others—the Kommunisten, the liberals, and the freethinking professors of our universities—what he calls the degenerates.” Johannsen’s voice had become loud and shrill. “He will not be satisfied until every citizen of Germany is in brown uniform, goose-stepping into Russia. I know how men like him think. I was in the army—the reserves. I was in Belgium. I am no stranger to the German love of order. But these animals . . . it goes beyond . . .” He pointed to his Matisse. “Such brilliance will be reduced to relics of a past progressive time.”

  His rant against Hitler left him limp. He plunked down into a chair and wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief he pulled out of his robe pocket. The little fluffy dog nestled in her master’s lap, but Otto lifted his head in concern. Johannsen absently patted his head.

  “I don’t know . . . maybe I’m just too old for this city.”

  “Maybe it is a reaction to discovering two murdered women.”

  Johannsen nodded vigorously. “Herrjemine, that was ghastly! I mean one was bad enough, but two?”

  “Terrible,” Berg sympathized. “This may be a hard question for you to answer, Herr Johannsen, but can you recall any similarities between the first body you discovered and the second?”

  “I cannot help you, Inspektor. All I really remember was running with Otto and Misty until I came upon a policeman.”

  “So you really can’t recall how the bodies were lying or—”

  “Nothing at all . . . well, not much, anyway.”

  “Go on.”

  “Just that both poor souls were wearing expensive clothing. The first one had on a flapper dress festooned with beading. This recent one wore a deep blue taffeta overlaid with silk lace. Lovely material.”

  Telling Berg nothing he didn’t already know. What did he expect? Still, there was something about Johannsen that bothered Berg. The man was out of place, out of step with Munich, yet here he was, finding two dead women.

  When in doubt, blame the victim.

  Kolb had once told him that men of that persuasion had conflicted relationships with women, hating them deep down. But from experience, Berg knew that most murdered women were killed by men they had been intimate with—a husband or a boyfriend—not a homosexual. What was it about this man and his apartment that was bothering him? He needed more time with the tall man to figure out what was gnawing at him.