Straight into Darkness

by Faye Kellerman

  “Very.”

  This time, enthusiasm burned in Storf’s eyes. “The man is dead now, but he had a son.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The attaché’s name was Dirk Schick—”

  “Good heavens!” Berg shouted aloud. “And the son is Robert?”

  “Rupert—”

  “Son of a bitch! The man really does exist!”

  “It appears that way.”

  “What else?”

  Storf’s face fell. “I thought that was quite a lot for three hours of shuffling paper. Do you know how many layers of bureaucracy I had to go through just to find out about Schick?”

  “You did well, Storf,” Berg said immediately. “Far better than I could have done. How did you get those vile civil servants to cooperate?” He smiled. “Charming a few Staatsbeamte?”

  “It will take more than my charm, Axel.” He sighed. “There are many, many records we have yet to go through. It could take months.”

  “At least we know that Robert or rather Rupert Schick is not a product of our imagination.” Berg replaced his knife in his boot and checked his pocket watch. “I must go, Ulrich.”

  “Then I will walk with you.” He stood up and helped Berg to his feet.

  “This is entirely unnecessary.”

  “Yes, yes.” Storf lit two cigarettes and gave one to Berg.

  “Are you sure?” Berg asked, holding the smoke.

  “I have more than my monthly ration of tobacco. Please.”

  Berg inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth fill his nostrils and lungs. The two men walked in silence. It was slow going, but at least Berg could move without doubling over. As they got closer to Gottlieb’s apartment, the streets narrowed, the crowds thickened, and the smells intensified from a mixture of sweet and savory aromas from vendors’ carts to the unmistakable stench of urine and garbage. During the rains, the lowland area of the Isarvorstadt swelled with groundwater from the river, bringing with it sewage and disease. Many of the blocks had only recently been lifted off quarantine.

  But this afternoon even poverty couldn’t disguise the crisp blue skies and the gentle perfumed winds blowing from the crystalline Alps. People were out in numbers. Bicycle riders cut a path through the throng of souls, dodging horses, old-fashioned pushcarts, and children who darted into traffic with no concern for their safety. All around were buildings ripe with decay and rot, barely holding up their weight. Most of the ground floors were tiny shops with windows fogged with dirt. The stores were packed with merchandise—everything from clothing to books. Noise came from everywhere: the shouts and squeals of children’s games of Kreisel and stickball, and conversations held in many languages: German, Polish, French, Czech, and occasionally Yiddish—the language of the poor Jewish immigrants. They passed by two musicians who stood on a stoop, one of them pushing the bellows of his accordion, the other languidly bowing his violin, the result being a plaintive rendition of “Es liegt in der Luft.”

  Berg said, “Rupert Schick . . . how old would he be?”

  “I suppose he’d be in his forties.”

  “Around Rolf Schoennacht’s age?”

  Storf slowed to a halt. “Schoennacht looks a bit older . . . but maybe he could be in his forties.”

  Around them, people sneaked furtive glances, then scurried away. The two men clearly didn’t belong here. Berg finished his cigarette and crushed the butt beneath his boot. He espied a group of young thugs in brown shirts weaving through the street, singing a raspy, drunken version of the “Horst Wessel Lied,” marching and tripping at the same time. They had lots of space to move in because people kept their distance. The thugs stood out because there were no other uniforms in the area. He glanced at Storf. “There’s trouble.”

  “They’re not doing anything illegal. You cannot arrest people for what they may do in the future.” Storf gave him a glance, then continued walking. “You barely survived one beating, Inspektor. Let’s not tempt the fates.”

  Sticking his hands in his pockets, Berg resumed his pace, limping along, trying to ignore the pain. “Schoennacht and Schick,” he said out loud. “We don’t know anything about Rupert Schick, but Rolf Schoennacht exists. Let’s find out who his parents are.” Berg winced as he stepped too hard on his left foot.

  Storf slowed down. “Are you all right?”

  Berg didn’t answer. “You say that Dirk Schick was married to an American?”

  “A woman named Della Weiss. Ordinarily, I would have thought that she was German, but a carbon copy of her visa was attached to her papers. She was born in Boston.”

  “Was her family German?”

  “With a name like Weiss, I would think yes, but I know nothing about her. And frankly, there is little on Dirk Schick as well. It took me hours just to look through all the diplomats. Schick wasn’t a career diplomat, that much I can tell you. He lived in Munich about ten years.”

  “What was his business other than being a part-time diplomat?”

  “I’m not sure.” Storf stopped for a moment. “But stapled to his visa were quite a few government papers for permission to bring Russian antiques into Germany.”

  Berg was taken aback. “The man was an art dealer?”

  “Maybe. He had purchased a fair number of relics and icons . . . a few illuminated manuscripts. There are carbons of all his transactions. He bought expensive pieces—the man obviously had money.”

  “Did he sell anything he brought in?”

  Storf shrugged ignorance. “I didn’t get a chance to pull up a business license. Next time.”

  “Did he do a lot of traveling?” Berg asked.

  “He had a lot of visa stamps. But you’d expect that from someone in the diplomatic corps.”

  “Did he travel to America?”

  “Ah, the English Lord Robert Hurlbutt. No, Dirk didn’t travel to America from the stamps that I saw. There was no indication that he ever left Europe.”

  “But Dirk had an American wife,” Berg said. “Our mystery man Robert or Rupert could have learned English from his mother.”

  “I reckon so, although I’m not going to find that out by looking at old records.”

  They started walking, ambling through the commotion for a minute or so without speaking. Finally, Berg said, “Let’s assume for a moment that Schoennacht and Schick are the same person: What was there about Dirk Schick that would embarrass his son?”

  “Nothing that I found out.”

  “Yet he uses the name Robert Schick when it suits him.” Ideas tumbled in Berg’s brain. “Schoennacht is leaving for Paris tonight. We should keep a watch on him.”

  “You are in no shape to watch anyone.”

  “Then help me by doing it yourself . . . but you can’t tell Volker.”

  Storf raised his eyebrows. “You’re asking me to watch a man surreptitiously—and without extra pay?”

  “Volker thinks Schoennacht is too well connected to be molested by the police. There’s a killer on the loose, Ulrich. If you don’t do it, I will.”

  Storf frowned. “I’ll talk to Georg. We’ll do what we can.”

  “You’re a good man, Ulrich, thank you.” Berg looked at the address in his hand. “We are almost at Gottlieb’s. I’ll handle it from here.”

  “How will you get home, Axel?”

  “I’ll find a cab.”

  “Good. Don’t even think about walking.” Storf paused. “One more thing . . . just to add to the confusion. Once I found out that Dirk Schick was bringing in antiques, you piqued my curiosity about Hanfstaengl, since they are both involved in art.”

  “So is Anders Johannsen.”

  “Who?”

  “The man who found the bodies of Marlena Druer and Regina Gottlieb.”

  “The fairy with the two dogs? I thought Müller told us that he was a composer or musician.”

  “He dabbles in art dealing. Degenerate art, as the Austrian would call it. They all do . . . a conspiracy of art critics.” Berg massaged his temples. “What were you going to tell
me about Hanfstaengl?”

  “Nothing extensive, Axel, but I did find out that he went to university in America.”

  Berg stared at him. “Harvard?”

  “Harvard.” Storf crushed out his cigarette and smiled wanly. “Knowing the gregarious piano player, I’m sure he was quite the fraternity man.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Gottlieb family lived in a third-floor walk-up, the stairwell reeking of sweat, urine, and rot. As it was barely tolerable in cool weather like today, Lord only knew how rank it got in the summer. The floorboards were scuffed and black with age. There were several areas where the planks were cracked or missing altogether, requiring care with each step. When Berg reached the correct floor, he entered a morose foyer lit by a single yellow bulb. One dingy window at the end of the hall let in the last bits of afternoon sun. The sounds of squalling children and muffled conversations seeped through thin walls, along with the static of a radio. Since it was close to dinnertime, there were the smells and sounds of cooking—something frying in grease, the steady chopping of a knife against a cutting board, the clank, clank, clank of a metal spoon within a metal bowl. After locating the correct flat, he placed his ear at the door and listened. He could make out a deep male voice talking in clipped, precise tones.

  Berg knocked.

  Immediately, the voice stopped. Then he heard the rapid patter of footsteps followed by a slamming door.

  “Wer ist da?”

  “Polizei.”

  There was no response. Berg knocked again. “Hallo, hallo.” Another knock. “I need to speak with you, Herr Gottlieb. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Slowly, the door opened. The man who stood at the threshold was ashen, a face etched in fear from the curve of his brow to the terror in his brown eyes. He was of medium height, very thin, and bespectacled with a nose more Roman than Jewish. Coffee-colored hair was clipped short with a wisp falling over his forehead. A brush of black whiskers lined the upper lip of his twitching mouth. He wore black pants, a white shirt, and a dark gray vest. His shoes, though old, had been recently shined. He motioned Berg inside, then shut and chained the door.

  “Guten Abend.” He held himself tightly as if this action would quell his shaking. “What is it that you want?”

  “Just a few moments of your time, Herr Gottlieb.” Berg looked over the man’s shoulder. The house was in disarray. Cabinets were open, items strewn all over the floor. Three boxes and two large valises rested on a beaten-up dining table. “Going somewhere?” Defying the bounds of human credulity, the man’s color turned even grayer. “May I ask what your plans are, Herr Gottlieb?”

  Gottlieb breathed in and out, trying to get the words out. He clasped his hands, but still the tremor was visible. “I’ve been through a terrible trauma . . . my children . . . and me.” His eyes watered. “I am taking my daughters, and we are visiting relatives in Hungary.”

  “It looks like you’re planning a long visit.”

  No response.

  “You must report to the authorities if you are moving to another city.”

  The man looked away, his eyes scanning the disarray. “I am not moving.” He licked his lips and started to speak, but thought better of it.

  “It does not look favorable, Herr Gottlieb, deciding to pay an extended call on relatives.”

  The man said nothing.

  “Most people would say that a man who would leave so soon after his wife’s death has something to hide.”

  Gottlieb’s lower lip began to quiver. “I have nothing to hide, Inspektor. I loved my wife. I am . . .” Tears pooled in his eyes. “I would give my life to have her back.”

  “Talk to me, then. Help us catch the man who did this to your wife.”

  He looked down and shook his head. “But I know nothing.”

  “You may know more than you think.”

  Again, Gottlieb shook his head. “I will stay, Herr Inspektor. I will stay here and do whatever you want me to do.” His voice rose a notch. “But please, I beg of you, let my children go. There is nothing left for them here except horrible memories, suspicion, hatred, and danger.”

  He started to pant. “I have some money. Not much to make you rich, but enough to help you through these uncertain times. Let me make arrangements for the girls. Let them go!” He couldn’t stop shaking. “Please!”

  “Papa?” a tiny voice asked. “Is everything all right, Papa?”

  Berg turned around. Facing him were two angelic little girls, both with deep blue eyes, one with blond curls and the other with straight black braids. They had smooth alabaster complexions with a tint of pink on each cheek. They smiled shyly at Berg, showing white teeth and dimples. Gottlieb quickly tended to them.

  “Everything is fine, everything is fine. This man is a nice policeman trying to help us.” Profusely sweating, Gottlieb pulled a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped his face. “I will be with you very soon.” He ushered them into a room. “Just stay here and wait until Papa is finished.”

  Without speaking, Gottlieb went over to a trunk and pushed it out of the way. He got down on his knees and pried open a loose slat of wood, producing a locked box similar to the one found in Marlena Druer’s room. He took out a key, opened the box, and showed Berg what was inside.

  “This is all the money I have saved. All of it. Have pity on me because of my daughters. Take some, but I beg you to leave enough for my daughters’ transportation out of this place until they can settle in Hungary.” In his eyes was a combination of pathos and ferocity. “Please let them go.”

  Berg looked at his face, then inside the box. There was cash, and lots of it. More than he could have saved in twenty years on decent wages as a policeman. How do they do it? These poor Jews, how do they have so much money?

  Gottlieb seemed to read his mind. “I have worked all my life. My wife worked all her life. Six days a week, twenty hours a day, only on the Sabbath we rest. All this money is honest, I swear.”

  “I believe you.” Berg rocked on his feet, taking weight off his sore hip.

  “Take . . .” He shoved the box toward Berg. “I insist.”

  “Why do you want to go elsewhere, Herr Gottlieb?” Gently, he pushed the box back to the distraught man. “If it is the political climate, I believe things will get better.”

  Gottlieb dropped his voice to a whisper. “I have lived in Munich all my life. I fought in the war; I fought for this land. But now . . . it is a different city. It is not safe for my kind anymore. The Austrian has made his feelings known.”

  “There is more to Munich than Hitler.”

  “But you don’t see what I see. You don’t live where I live, Inspektor. Every day I see gangs of his men. Young, filthy, drunken boys. They terrorize old men. They push them, then laugh when they fall. They grab their canes and hit them. I see them harass women, grab them and pinch them—they would do worse if no one were around. And this is all in the open, Inspektor, in the daylight. Unashamed. No, it is worse than unashamed: They are proud of what they do. They commit robberies, they smash windows with rocks, they scare the children. I was able to tolerate it when my wife was here. She was a solid woman who could raise children in these hard times.” Tears spilled over and fell onto his cheeks. “But she isn’t here now. I cannot allow my daughters to grow up in this way . . . living in fear.”

  Sweat dripped down his face.

  “If another woman is murdered, they will blame it on the Jews. They will blame it specifically on me. They will say I wanted revenge, I wanted retaliation, I wanted blood. Yes, I want all those things. I want them so badly that I tremble when I think about it. Yet it is against my nature to hurt anyone. Certainly, I could never kill anyone. But will that matter to them? The thugs will break into my apartment. They will kill me. And my daughters . . . I can’t bear to think what will happen to them.” Again, he offered Berg money. “I will help you, but you must help me.”

  Berg looked at the metal box, then at Gottlieb’s pale face, at the feral lo
ok in his eyes. Once, Berg might have thought Gottlieb insane, but the events of the past weeks had given him pause. If thugs could beat up a police officer with impunity, what would they do to this unfortunate Jew?

  “Arrange for your children to leave,” Berg said. “But you, Herr Gottlieb, you must stay. If you try to leave, you will be arrested and charged with the murder of your wife. I assure you that there are those high up in the government who do not care about your guilt or innocence, only about results. Do not make a fool out of me if I grant your wish for your children.”

  Gottlieb blinked back tears. “Thank you. I know you have your orders, but I can tell that you are a good man.”

  “Yes, yes—”

  “No, I can tell.” He paused, then retrieved a handful of bills from the box and offered them again to Berg. “Here. Please.”

  Berg ignored the outstretched hand. “You do not seem surprised that it is possible for you to be charged with murder.”

  “I know what happened to the other Jew, Anton Gross. He also had no reason to murder his wife. And he was a rich man. If a rich man could not save himself, what chance would I have?”

  Berg laid his hand on the Jew’s back. “Herr Gottlieb, I know you’ve lost your wife, and I know you are afraid. But I think you know more than you are saying. Now is the time. Please! If you know what happened to your wife, you must tell me. Was she murdered by these hoodlum gangs? Is that why you’re afraid? Do you fear retribution?”

  “Yes, of course, I fear retribution, but honestly, Herr Inspektor, I don’t know what happened. That is the truth.”

  “But you have suspicions, no?”

  Gottlieb looked around as if someone was hiding in his closet.

  “Or maybe it wasn’t the gangs. Perhaps it was as simple as a wage dispute?” Dread passed through Gottlieb’s wet eyes. Berg knew he had hit upon something. “I know that Herr Schoennacht does not like Jews.”