Again, Berg looked at the paintings. “Are you an art dealer, Herr Johannsen?”
“I dabble in it. I used to consider myself a composer. Once Germans had an interest in modern musical scales—Arnold Schoenberg, Alban Berg . . . Webern.” A sigh. “Now . . .” He shook his head sadly. “I am reduced to writing inane Kabarett songs. Drinking songs. Ho, ho, ho, ho . . . hee, hee, hee, hee.” He rolled his eyes. “At least, there is still some money in it.”
“From whom do you buy your art?”
“Here and there.” The old man shrugged. “If I like the piece and I can get a good price, I snap it up. If someone sees it and wants to buy it for a good price, I am more than willing to sell.”
“Have you ever purchased any works from Ernest Hanfstaengl?”
“That Nazi! I wouldn’t give him the time of day, let alone my money.”
“Maybe from Rolf Schoennacht?”
“He’s just as bad. Besides, both of them—Hanfstaengl and Schoennacht—do most of their business in The States. Only the obscenely wealthy industrialists in America can afford such outrageous prices.”
“Have you met either man?”
“We’ve been introduced.” Stated very casually. “I remember meeting Hanfstaengl at a gallery opening in the Paris Autumn Salon. I saw Schoennacht once with Ambrose Vollard. Sometimes we frequent the same auctions. But do I know them?” He shook his head. “Not at all.”
“I just have a few more questions, Herr Johannsen. I hope they won’t trouble you too much.”
“I’m sure they will.” He bristled. “What?”
“When you discovered the body of Marlena Druer—”
“It’s so awful!” Johannsen said. “Putting a name on the body.”
“She had a name, yes.” Berg looked solemn. “You told Inspektor Müller that you were out for your walk at around seven in the morning.”
“Seven, seven-thirty. Right after daybreak. I used to find walking along the banks of the Isar a thing of quietude and beauty. Oftentimes, melodies would come into my brain, beautiful songs of a country that once was—all that was progressive and modern. Such a pity!”
“And the day you found the second body . . . what time did you leave for your walk?”
“I believe I told that awful man Messersmit that I left just before daybreak. Otto really needed to get outside, as he’s been having some stomach problems. I’ve been walking in the Englischer Garten lately because I’ve been too nervous to walk along the Isar. Which is crazy because the first woman was found in the Englischer Garten. But at least, it has pathways and open space.
“So then this happens! Now, I’m too nervous to walk anywhere. I’m like an old crazy person, housebound . . . sitting in the dark. A living model of what this city has become—from the light of all that was new and fresh heading straight into darkness.”
Johannsen rubbed his arms and shivered.
“Perhaps I would be better off moving out of Munich. I wasn’t born in this city. I came here because I thought it had something unique to offer.”
“You’re from the north.”
“Lübeck,” Johannsen said. “My father was a handsome Danish seaman who fell deeply in love with my mother, who was a beautiful and creative German woman. They were terrible for each other . . . my mother and father. Eventually she got tired of waiting for her staid husband to return. One day she packed all of our belongings and moved us to Paris where she studied art. Fine for her, but horrible for me. We lived in squalor. A year later, she died from cholera. I was sent back to my father, who was still at sea most of the time and had no intention of settling down for his snot-nosed son. That’s what he called me: a snot nose.”
Berg nodded, thinking about Joachim . . . Monika . . . how his children’s welfare had become even more important to him as they grew older.
“Finally, I convinced the old man that at fourteen, I was quite capable of living on my own. Anything was better than living with my paternal grandmother, who was very Lutheran and quite awful—punitive, stodgy, strict. It was no wonder my father chose a life at sea.”
“You had quite a childhood.”
“It was worse than some, better than others. At least with my father, I had enough money for food and clothing. Plus, I had this natural gift for music. A teacher at the Gymnasium convinced me to apply for advanced lessons in music. A year later, I was studying piano at the conservatory.”
“What brought you to Munich? Bavaria was always very traditional.”
“Yes, Munich is a progressive island in a sea of conservatism. Years ago, the city was all beauty and grace, filled with laughter and the latest modern ideas. Now . . .”
He sighed.
“I have thought many times about moving back to Paris, but my French is so rusty . . . and it brings back terrible memories. Besides, we all know that Parisians have no use for Germans. Holland and Belgium are too cold, and I don’t speak Dutch or Walloon. Austria is like Munich, only worse.”
“How is your English?”
Slowly, Johannsen smiled. “It’s serviceable. Enough to get by. But if the French have no use for the Germans, what would that say about the English?”
“There is always Switzerland.”
“When was the last time you’ve heard of a modern Swiss composer or a modern Swiss artist?”
“Paul Klee.”
“He’s basically French.” Johannsen stroked his lapdog but addressed the big one: “What do you think about moving to Switzerland, Otto?”
At the sound of his name, the dog raised his head. And then with complete clarity Berg suddenly saw what was bothering him. The big dog was wearing a metal chain, heavy and ponderous, that was securely attached to his leather leash. The lapdog, however, was wearing more of a necklace than a chain. Lightweight and braided, if placed around a woman’s neck and pulled tightly, it would leave an imprint that was eerily similar to the impressions found on Regina Gottlieb’s throat. And if drawn even tighter, it could have sliced through the neck of Marlena Druer.
• • •
VOLKER SHOVED THE FLYER in Berg’s face. “Another rally, this one scheduled for tomorrow afternoon—three o’clock at Königsplatz. The topic is the inability of the police to keep our city safe. Not only are Hitler and other NSDAP faithful slated to speak, but also members of the BWP. Even the death of a lowly Jewess is raising alarms.” He spun around and poked Berg’s chest. “What are you going to do about it?”
“What would you like me to do, sir? Arrest another innocent person?”
“If you have to, yes. Arrest Gottlieb’s husband. No one will care if another Jew dies. In fact, it may appease the restlessness in the streets.”
“Maybe as a temporary measure, like Anton Gross. But we both know that another innocent man will die and, in the end, we will still be no closer to solving these killings.”
“How do you know he is innocent? Have you investigated him?”
“I will as soon as I leave this office.”
“You’re not going anywhere!” Volker ordered. “Sit down!”
Berg sat. Volker was bright red in the face, and veins bulged from his neck as he spoke. “We are sending our men in full force. There will not be another putsch in Munich, do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Whatever your orders are, Herr Kommissar, I will follow them.”
Volker seemed momentarily mollified. “You don’t have a damn notion of what pressure I am under. Orders from everyone—from Roddewig, from Brummer, from Mantel, and from Schlussel, who is nothing but a mouthpiece for the Lord Mayor. They demand results!”
“More like they want someone to hang.”
“They want answers, Axel!”
“I am doing all I can, Herr Kommissar. Just when I think I have a lead to follow, a new body appears and confounds everything.”
Volker paced around the small room. “How does he move so quickly and so brazenly?”
He was speaking rhetorically, but a thought suddenly came to Berg.
“Maybe our fiend has help.”
“What kind of help?”
“One is the lookout and holds the victim down while the other rapes her. Then they switch.”
Volker digested that. “Herrjemine, what do we have? Two murderers?”
Berg shrugged.
“Hitler’s boys?”
“Ordinarily, I’d say yes, but in that case, there would be evidence of a struggle in all of the victims. The only one who seems to have put up a fight is Regina Gottlieb. The first two—Gross and Druer—I suspect they both knew the murderer . . . or murderers.”
“And the only thing you have so far is a Russian mystery man named Robert Schick?”
“Who, I think, is also posing as Lord Robert Hurlbutt. I believe that this man is responsible for the deaths of Druer and Gross. Regina Gottlieb is another story. She was neither rich nor politically inclined. She worked for Rolf Schoennacht’s wife in secret. He hates Jews, and he might have been resentful that he owed money to Regina Gottlieb.”
“You think Rolf Schoennacht killed a woman because he didn’t want to pay a simple debt?”
“Maybe his anti-Semitism allowed him to believe that since she was a Jewess, he owed her nothing.”
“So why would he rape her?”
“What better way to show contempt for a woman whom he considers a degenerate bitch.”
“That’s absurd. If you subscribe to Hitler’s doctrine, you know that sex with Jews is forbidden.”
Berg thought a moment. “Here’s another idea. The first two ladies thought of themselves as progressive and cultured. Rolf Schoennacht is an art dealer who deals in modern painting. So does Anders Johannsen for that matter.”
“Who?”
“Anders Johannsen, the man who found the bodies of Regina Gottlieb and Marlena Druer. They don’t live far from each other, Schoennacht and Johannsen, and they don’t live far from where the bodies were dumped.”
“Are these two men friends?”
“Not according to Johannsen. On the surface, they are very different. One is a homosexual progressive who was born in Lübeck; the other is an old-time Bavarian conservative and a fan of Hitler. They have some things in common, though, starting with a passion for modern art. Actually, they both have Otto Dix paintings . . . others as well, but because of his violent subject matter, Dix sticks in my mind. They’re also around the same age, and they are both tall. A tall man was seen with Anna Gross on the night she died.”
“Do either of these men look like the sketch that Gerhart Leit drew?”
“Not exactly. And the two men don’t look alike. But if they were disguised and it was dark . . .”
“And why would these two men be killing women?”
“Perhaps one dislikes women because he is a homosexual, the other because the murdered women were liberal and Jewish and he feels they’re trash anyway.”
“And what do you offer as evidence?”
“Nothing. I’m just attempting to find a common link. ”
“Berg, how would they ever meet? They don’t socialize in the same circles.”
“They met through their art, sir. At galleries, at auction houses, in Paris. Johannsen said as much.” Berg licked his lips. “Granted, it’s a very weak link. Still, I would like to find out more about Schoennacht and Johannsen.”
“As long as you’re discreet. I don’t care about Adolf Johannsen—”
“Anders.”
“Whatever his name is. He’s a nothing, a little old fairy. But I know that Rolf Schoennacht has some connections in the city. I’m sure that he counts Roderick Schlussel as a personal friend.”
“I will be very careful,” Berg said. “I would like to interview Regina Gottlieb’s husband, please. Before it gets too dark.”
Volker waved him away. “Go.”
Berg got up from the chair, keeping his thoughts about the dog chain to himself. It would have been all the evidence that Volker needed for an arrest. The mobs would take care of the conviction just as they had with Anton Gross. A Jew and a homosexual: perfect fodder for Hitler. The last thing Berg wanted was another lynching.
THIRTY-ONE
Hallo, Axel!” Storf called out.
There was no response. Berg either hadn’t heard him or was purposely ignoring him. Storf dashed over and caught Berg just as he stepped outside the Ett Strasse station house. “Grüss Gott, Berg, where’s the fire?”
Berg continued at a fast clip, his gait made irregular by his sore hip. “No fire, but I’d like to make it to Gärtnerplatz and back before dark.” He looked up. “And while the weather permits. I have an interview to do—Volker wants me to talk to Gottlieb.”
Without warning Berg’s knees buckled as pain shot down his right leg. Storf grabbed his arm, preventing him from falling on his face.
“Are you all right, man?”
“Yes, yes . . .” His voice sounded shaky even to his ears.
“Sit down—”
“I’m fine!” Berg wanted to shake off the help, but didn’t have the energy. He’d been pushing his compromised body until it finally had reached its limits. His face felt as hot as sizzling grease. “Really, I’m okay.”
Storf steadied Berg back on his feet. “Axel, let’s get a beer.”
“I don’t want a beer,” Berg shot back. “I want to do this interview. Then I want to go home.” He took another step forward and cried out in agony. “Herrjemine! I’m going to kill those fucking bastards for what they did to me.”
Around them, stunned passersby swiftly walked away, heads down, eyes on their feet, assuming that Berg was crazy or drunk or both. Finally, he composed himself. “Really, I’m fine, Ulrich.”
“Then keep me company while I get a beer, Herr Inspektor.” Berg was in too much pain to argue. Storf saw an open-air café across the street. Gingerly, he walked Berg to an empty table, depositing him in a seat. “Don’t move! I’ll be right back.”
As soon as Storf disappeared inside, Berg tried to stand, but pain forced him to sink back into his chair. He cursed like a seaman as waitresses wearing traditional dirndls averted their eyes. Finally Storf returned with a couple of pints. Berg took a sip from a frosted mug and felt immediate relief. Chastened, he muttered, “Thanks.”
“You shouldn’t be walking so much.”
“I can’t ride my bicycle. How am I to go from one place to another?”
“There are buses, streetcars, and cabs. And you can always borrow a Kraftrad. The bigger issue, Axel, is that you’re working too hard.”
“I just took two weeks of holiday, and look what happened while I was gone.”
“You couldn’t have prevented the murder even if you had been here.”
“How do you know? Maybe I would have caught the bastard and Regina Gottlieb would be alive today.”
“And maybe not.”
“Well, we’ll never know.” Berg took another sip, then a gulp. “I’ll survive my injuries, but as long as this bastard is out there, other women may not be so lucky. I need to reach Gottlieb before dark.”
“Another day won’t make a difference, Axel.”
“That is where you’re wrong. It was a direct order from Volker.”
“Why? What does he care about an old Jew?”
“He’d like me to arrest him for the murder of his wife.”
Storf sat up. “Did he do it?”
“I think not, but the Jew’s guilt or innocence makes no difference to the Kommissar. All he wants is an arrest.”
Storf was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It’s not going to work forever . . . blaming these murders on the Jews.”
Even Storf understood the very basics. Berg pulled out the flyer for the rally tomorrow afternoon. “Look at this.”
Storf skimmed the announcement. “Another rally. So what?”
“Volker finds it worrisome. He fears another putsch from the Austrian.”
“This is not ’23: There are no breadlines. The economy is not sparkling, but it is not so depressed,
eh? If the Austrian is elected chancellor, it will not be by force but by the will of the people.”
“God forbid.”
“We’ll just have to see what God forbids.” Storf took a long swig of his cold beer. “Go home. I’ll talk to the Jew.”
“I don’t trust you. Neither will the Jew.”
Storf laughed. “And you think he will trust you more than me? Axel, you are naive. You, me, all Germans . . . to the Jews, we are the enemy. And to us Germans, the Jew is the enemy.”
“Bitte!” Berg was disgusted. He looked deep into his stein as if it held some magical solution to Germany’s ills. In a way, it did. What couldn’t be cured with a pint of beer? “Right now, I’m not open to the wisdom of a bastard Austrian.”
“I speak what everyone here thinks.” Storf leaned over and lowered his voice. “You can’t make deals with these people. They are not like you and me. They are a different species.”
Berg studied Storf’s eyes. He failed to see the burning passion of hatred, none of Hitler’s rage at the devil race. What rested there was nothing more than mild annoyance, akin to having one’s pet piss in the house. Storf was irritated because he was the police, therefore responsible for cleaning up the city’s messes. And many blamed the mess on the Jews.
Berg finished off his pint. “That was a good idea, Ulrich. Fortification. I feel better now—well enough to interview Gottlieb.”
“You cannot walk by yourself.”
“I will take it slowly.”
“Sit a moment. I have some information for you.”
“Regarding?”
“Diplomats.”
Berg pulled a pocketknife from his boot and flipped the blade open. He began to clean his nails. “Go on.”
Storf smiled. “You have given me an almost impossible task. In Munich there are far too many former ambassadors, envoys, attachés, emissaries, and the like to investigate every single one. But since we are narrowing our search to people who are fluent in English and Russian as well as German, I began there. I started with those who speak Russian because there is only one Russia, while there are many countries that have English and German as their primary languages. I was lucky. There was a former diplomat—a minor diplomat actually—who lived in Munich while serving as an attaché to Russia when the Romanovs were in power. He was also married to an American woman. I thought that sounded promising.”
Straight into Darkness Page 24