Why did Julia Schoennacht state that Regina Gottlieb was bringing her the gown when Regina’s husband insisted that Schoennacht had purchased the gown a month ago? Was Julia so shameless that she’d wear something without paying for it? Had a sudden turn in the family’s finances meant that she couldn’t pay for it? Or did Rolf refuse to pay for a gown made by a Jewess and insist that Regina take it back?
Ro as in Rolf.
Maybe Regina refused to take back the dress. An argument ensued, and Regina was killed accidentally. Then Rolf dressed her in the gown and dumped her in the park to show that the gown was not in his wife’s possession.
Berg wondered about the gown’s fit. Was it better suited to Regina or to Julia? Assuming a specific motive—Rolf had killed Gottlieb because he didn’t want to pay her—would that imply that the murder of Regina Gottlieb was independent of the murders of Anna Gross and Marlena Druer?
Yet all three had been strangled.
What did the three women have in common? Two of the three could have been Kommunisten. There was no indication that Regina was a Kommunist except that many Jews were Kommunisten. And it was clear that Rolf Schoennacht hated Kommunisten and Jews. It wasn’t hard for Berg to imagine Rolf’s big hands tightening a chain around the necks of all three women.
Was “hatred” of another’s politics enough to push a sane person to actually kill? Count Arco-Valley hated Jews, and he hated Kommunisten. His fanatic rage bubbled over into lunacy, culminating in the assassination of Kurt Eisner, who was both a Jew and a Kommunist.
But at that time Munich had been languishing in a terrible postwar flux. The war had been lost, lives had been demolished, the monarchy had been overthrown, and Russia was eagerly waiting to invade Bavaria and claim it as part of the Soviet Union. In Arco-Valley’s demented mind, Kurt Eisner represented all that was wrong with chaotic Munich. Eisner’s assassination had momentarily quashed any hopes of Red rule in Munich.
Would the murders of these three disparate women change the city politically?
Assuredly the killings had given the Nazis plenty of fodder to feed a frenzied crowd. Hitler had been linking the murders to the “degenerates.” It was a certainty that the Austrian would do it again tonight. No matter that Regina Gottlieb was herself Jewish: Facts never bothered Hitler. When cornered, Hitler simply lied.
Did the Austrian have his own personal assassin to carry out his dirty work? Was Schoennacht this decade’s Count Arco-Valley? Perhaps Anna Gross and Marlena Druer were providing money to Kommunisten and this was Schoennacht’s way of stopping them.
But then, why would he murder Regina Gottlieb even if she was a secret subversive? Schoennacht was bound to know that he and his wife would be questioned in Gottlieb’s death. Why bring on such unwanted attention? If Schoennacht was guilty, did he honestly think he would get away with it?
Too many gaps in this theory. He simply needed more information.
Berg had assigned Müller and Storf the task of watching Schoennacht’s movements from his house to the train station. After the art dealer had left the city, they were supposed to interview his valet. Whether they were successful or not, Berg didn’t know. He’d been tied up with meetings all morning, dealing with the drudgery of endless discussion on crowd control. For three hours, the groups had been talking about pedestrian routes and marching lines and traffic patterns and police checkpoints. And how to man police checkpoints.
It was all important, Berg knew. Without it, the rally could degenerate into chaos. But there was a killer on the loose. In a country where order reigned supreme, catching a murderer would just have to wait.
THIRTY-FOUR
The tower of sauerkraut obliterated the hot pastrami underneath. As Müller brought a forkful to his mouth, the pickled cabbage dropped back onto the plate. He chewed with enthusiasm, then said, “I am taking Karen to the country this weekend.” He licked his upper lip. “She has had enough of the city.”
Berg said, “After the rally, everyone will have had enough of the city.”
“And are we prepared?” Storf asked.
“If talk translates into action, we will have no problems.” Berg sipped his beer. “The assignments will be handed out at two-thirty. The Oberbürgermeister wants everyone in clean uniforms and in their respective positions by three. The rally is set to start at four.”
Storf said, “What are the positions?”
“The Versammlungswesen want the crowd in a half-circle with one main aisle cut down the middle. The Nazis will go first. Hitler and his SS will use that aisle to make their entrance. Then there will be two access aisles forty-five degrees from the main aisle. Police will be stationed on the aisles, a man every few meters. The tightest security will be near their stage . . . the Kradstaffel will be on the periphery. There will also be a line of policemen behind Hitler making sure no one sneaks up from the back.”
“And your position, Axel?”
“I am part of the Kradstaffel. My injuries prevent me from standing too long.”
“And what about Storf and me?” Müller asked.
“You two are assigned center stage.” As they groaned, Berg held up his hands. “Volker’s decision, not mine. As long as you two are up there, use your eyes and ears. Maybe you’ll hear something that has to do with our murders. Keep a close watch on Hitler’s inner circle. Last time he had a rally, Kurt Haaf showed up. I’m wondering who the new faces will be this time.”
“It won’t be Schoennacht, that much I can tell you,” Storf said. “He left his house yesterday evening and went directly to the station for an overnight train to Paris.”
Müller said, “As soon as he was gone, we went back to his house in hopes of talking to Madame Schoennacht about the dress.”
“Unfortunately, Madame was indisposed. However, we did not leave empty-handed.” Storf rifled through some notes. “Ach, ja. Helmut Dittmar. He is Schoennacht’s personal valet.”
“He didn’t accompany Schoennacht?”
“Apparently not,” Müller said. “He refused to talk to us any further, claiming he was too busy, but we persisted. If all goes as planned, he will be at the Chinese Tower at twelve-thirty.” Müller looked at his watch. “We’ve got a half hour.”
“Good job, men,” Berg said. “I’m amazed that he agreed to talk to the police.”
“It took a little prodding,” Müller said through a mouthful of food.
“Not too much,” Storf said. “As a valet, Helmut isn’t used to questioning authority.”
• • •
BECAUSE THE ENGLISCHER Garten had been the site where two murdered women were found—with a third discovered not too far away—the lovely green oasis was almost devoid of people. When Berg remarked upon it, Müller shrugged.
“Better than it was two weeks ago,” Storf said. “Then it was as silent as the graveyard it was.”
Berg rubbed his arms and checked the time, noting that Helmut Dittmar was three minutes late. He and Müller stood in the shadow of the Chinese Tower, a five-story pagoda that hovered over the park’s beer garden. In the warm summer months the area was an idyllic place where Müncheners relaxed and socialized. Berg supposed that the architecture was meant to lend a bit of the exotic to the Bavarian capital. But now, under a forbidding leaden sky, with the grass dead and the trees bare, it resembled a skeletal wedding cake. The beer garden wouldn’t be open for months, and rows of green tables and chairs stood empty and forlorn.
“Where is he?”
“He’ll come, he’ll come.” Müller took out a tin of cigarettes, lit one for Berg, then one for himself. “Ah . . . there he is.”
Müller indicated a short-limbed, rotund man in a black overcoat. He was approaching rapidly; from a distance, he looked like a bouncing ball. As he got closer, his stride lengthened, his short legs barely extending from the hemline of his topcoat. Under a black hat was a round face that was bland and colorless except for a bushy brown mustache that obliterated his top lip, and a bright pink nose. When
the valet was in earshot, Storf made the introductions. “Inspektor, this is Helmut Dittmar, Herr Schoennacht’s personal valet.”
“Grüss Gott,” Dittmar said, clicking his heels.
Berg put the valet’s age at around forty-five, judging by the flecks of gray in the mustache and the yellowing of his teeth. “Inspektor Axel Berg, here. I thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”
Storf said, “Herr Berg is the Chief Inspektor of the Mordkommission.”
“Mordkommission?” Dittmar’s face registered shock. “What is this about?”
“It is traditional for the police to ask the questions, Herr Dittmar.” Berg smiled, trying to appear less official. “And we just have a few of them.” He took out a tin. “Cigarette?”
The valet shook his head briskly.
“I am sorry to bother you with this trivia, but I’d like to clear up a few irksome details.” Berg took another inhalation of tobacco. He let it out slowly. “Before he left, Herr Schoennacht suggested that we speak with you.”
“Speak with me?”
“Since you are aware of his habits, no doubt.”
Storf added, “Herr Schoennacht goes to his club regularly, does he not?”
A simple enough question, one that Dittmar felt comfortable answering. “He goes to several clubs.”
“Ah, maybe that will explain the confusion,” Berg said. “What are his clubs?”
“I know that Herr Schoennacht belongs to the Knights of the Foreign Wars.”
“And how often does he go to that Verein?”
“I believe they meet once a month.”
“Where?”
“I believe the gentlemen meet at the members’ residences.”
“You are not certain?” Müller asked.
“Herr Schoennacht does not share this information with me.” Dittmar bristled. “As long as I’ve been in Herr Schoennacht’s employ, he has not held a meeting. But every time the club meets, I instruct the cab to take Herr Schoennacht to a different residence.”
Müller smoked deeply, inhaling so strongly that his cheeks folded inward. “Exactly how long have you been in Herr Schoennacht’s employ?”
“Just over two years.”
“And before Herr Schoennacht, you were also a personal valet?”
“All my life,” Dittmar stated. “Before Herr Schoennacht, I worked for Emmanuel Bosch for sixteen years.” He licked his lips. “Maybe I will have a cigarette, bitte.”
“Of course.” Berg lit a smoke and gave it to the valet. “Tell me about Herr Bosch.”
“There is not much to say. He was a fine man—hardworking, orderly, honest. We developed a close relationship. He treated me very well, Herr Inspektor. Even from the grave, he took care of me. He was a fellow club member with Herr Schoennacht, who hired me into his house as his personal valet shortly after Herr Bosch’s death.”
“I see,” Berg said. Smoking appeared to relax the man. “And do you also enjoy such benevolence with your current employer?”
“I have no complaints.” Dittmar’s face tightened. “None at all.”
Obviously a lie, but Berg let it go. “And to what clubs did your past employer belong?”
“His favorite was the Saviors of the Royal Crest of Bavaria.”
“And does Herr Schoennacht belong to the Saviors as well?” Müller asked.
“Herr Schoennacht belongs to many clubs. He goes out alone almost every night.”
Müller raised his eyebrow. “And this does not bother Madame Schoennacht?”
“They often socialize . . . almost every Friday night. They have hosted quite a few dinner parties since I’ve been under their roof.” Dittmar smoked the cigarette until there was simply nothing more to smoke. He ground the remaining embers under his heel. “In all honesty, Inspektor, I don’t think Madame Schoennacht is interested in his affairs. Herr Schoennacht once confided that much of the socializing at his clubs revolves around his business. I’m sure that endless talk about business would bore her.”
Berg thought otherwise. Certainly her comely face and her charming demeanor would be assets. And hadn’t she told him that she wanted the dress from Regina because a count was hosting a three-day gala in the mountains and she needed something special to wear that would impress royalty? If Herr Schoennacht socialized at night without his wife, he didn’t want her around for reasons other than business. He remembered a comment that Julia had made with a searing smile.
Men are never trustworthy.
And there was also Gottlieb claiming that Schoennacht had eyed his wife. Taken individually, the facts weren’t much. Together they were a circumstantial indictment.
“You did not accompany Herr Schoennacht on his latest business trip—why?”
“Herr Schoennacht believed it was wise for me to stay in residence to help Madame Schoennacht.”
“But surely there are other servants for that,” Müller said. “A valet stays with his master.”
Again, Dittmar bristled. “My position is to obey, not to question.”
Berg asked, “Have you ever accompanied Herr Schoennacht on his business trips?”
Dittmar pinkened, indicating to Berg that he hadn’t been invited—a solid slap in the face. The valet attempted to hide his embarrassment. “You said a few questions, Inspektor Berg. This is a lot more than just a few questions.”
Berg agreed. “And I’m sorry to monopolize your time, but these queries really must be answered. How old is Herr Schoennacht?”
“That is a personal question, Herr Inspektor. Surely you don’t expect me to answer that.”
“From his hair loss and the wattles on his neck, I’d say he was in his fifties.”
Dittmar’s face solidified like setting wax. “He has yet to reach fifty.”
“And he and Madame have no children?” Müller asked.
“That is also a personal question.”
“On the contrary,” Berg said, “I am not asking about the circumstances. All I want to know is if they have children . . . together.”
“They have no children.”
“She is much younger than he,” Berg said to Müller. “I’d say it was a second marriage. So perhaps Schoennacht has children from a first marriage.”
Dittmar cleared his throat and kneaded his hands. “Am I excused?”
“Can you tell me which club Herr Schoennacht went to on the night of Regina Gottlieb’s murder?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you just said that you were the one who told the cab where to take your master.”
“Well, I don’t remember. It was a while ago.”
“Try, Herr Dittmar,” Storf said. “We wouldn’t ask unless it was important.” Berg handed the valet a new cigarette.
The valet took a puff of the fresh cigarette and sighed deeply. “Do you recall the day?”
“Tuesday,” Berg said.
“Maybe the Mystics of the North.” Dittmar smoked greedily. “Yes, I think that was it.”
Berg wrote it down. “And where do the Mystics meet?”
“Usually at Osteria Bavaria.”
“Hitler’s favorite restaurant,” Müller said. “Is Herr Hitler a member of the Mystics?”
“I don’t know,” Dittmar said. “But I think not.”
“Why?” Berg asked.
“Just . . . perhaps I speak out of turn. I really know nothing about Herr Schoennacht’s clubs.”
“You’re doing your employer and the police a great service,” Berg said. “Just a few more questions. Do you remember what time Herr Schoennacht left his residence?”
“I can’t recall the exact time. It was two weeks ago.”
“Approximately, Herr Dittmar,” Berg said. “Seven . . . eight?”
“It was before dinner, which was unusual. Not that he was going to a restaurant for dinner, but Herr Schoennacht almost always dines with Madame.”
“A devoted husband,” Müller said.
“She insists upon it,” Dittmar let slip
. Then he blushed.
“Good for her,” Berg stated. “What time did he return from his nighttime activities?”
“Again, I don’t recall exactly,” Dittmar said. “Usually, he returns around eleven. Sometimes later. If it’s after twelve, Herr Schoennacht has instructed me not to wait for him to do his toilet.”
“That is considerate of him,” Müller said.
Berg said, “On the night of Regina Gottlieb’s murder, did Herr Schoennacht arrive home after twelve?”
It was as if a spark had just fired in Dittmar’s brain. This wasn’t just a simple fact-finding meeting: The valet finally realized that the police suspected his employer of Regina’s murder. His face turned red, and he clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw muscles bulged. “Everything that I have told you . . . it is subject to my poor memory.” He threw his cigarette on the ground and crushed it angrily. “I must be going. Madame depends on me when her husband is away.”
“Thank you for your time,” Berg said.
Dittmar picked up the butt and looked around for an ash can. “I want to make one thing very clear, Herr Inspektor. I am very content in my position with the Schoennachts. I want to say that emphatically.”
“I understand.” Berg smiled.
Dittmar answered with a strained smile. “I really don’t think you do, Herr Inspektor. I am no longer disposed to answer your questions.” He clicked his heels, then turned and marched down the path, a soldier in the army of obedience.
• • •
IT TOOK A FEW MOMENTS for Berg to formulate his thoughts. The skies had darkened, the afternoon turning colder by the hour. He turned up his coat collar and rubbed his gloved hands. “I don’t think Dittmar is fond of his employer.” He faced his men. “It is probably why he agreed to speak with us in the first place. A good valet would have shown us the door and locked it behind us.”
“Dittmar may not be fond of him, but he certainly doesn’t want to help us arrest Schoennacht,” Müller said. “The valet became officious once he realized where we were going with the questioning.”
Storf said, “If his boss is jailed for murder, Dittmar is out of a job and without references. It’s amazing he spoke to us at all.”
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