He hobbled down three flights of stairs, his hip improving with every day that passed. Outside it was a brisk but pleasant spring afternoon; the azure heavens mixed with fluffy cotton clouds, the sky paying respects to the state colors of Bavaria. He could have taken the streetcar, but the Hall of Records was just a ten-minute walk from the hospital. The stroll would give him time to think.
Who was masquerading as Rupert Schick and why?
Berg started from the beginning: Gerhart Leit.
Leit had given him the description of the man whom Anna Gross had been with. Maybe he had murdered Anna and was misleading Berg on purpose. Although Leit was thin and slight, certainly his hands were strong enough to tighten a stocking around Anna’s neck. But why would he murder Anna? In all his inquiries, Berg had learned nothing to suggest that Leit had been involved. Although Leit was not completely dismissed as a suspect, Berg placed him near the bottom of his list.
He assumed Leit had been truthful, that the man with Anna Gross had been tall, had been dressed up to look like an aristocrat with a monocle and top hat, and had looked something like Putzi Hanfstaengl.
Berg considered Putzi Hanfstaengl.
The art dealer was certainly arrogant enough to have a mistress and boldly parade her around the theaters. He spoke English fluently. The American reporter Green had identified the man in the sketch as Lord Robert Hurlbutt and said that Hurlbutt was a well-known name at Harvard. Putzi went to Harvard and, like the elusive Schick, had an American mother. What if Putzi had met real aristocrats at Harvard? What if the piano player had decided to lead a secret life as a lord, sneaking out with mistresses, then murdering them when they caught on to his imposture?
But Hanfstaengl was more than just plain tall. He was very, very tall—and very, very recognizable. Even in disguise, he would have been noticed by someone. Berg conceded that Putzi wasn’t a strong possibility, definitely not at the top of the list.
Anders Johannsen.
He had found not just one but two of the victims. He was tall and blond, and from a certain perspective could have resembled the man in the sketch. His little lapdog wore a gold necklace as a collar, and both Marlena Druer and Regina Gottlieb had been strangled with a chain. Moreover, there was something implausible about his life story: the absent father who hated him, the bohemian mother who died when he was very young, his independence at fourteen.
Berg took off his gloves and looked up at the sky. The sun was dancing through the clouds, and he walked in nature’s spotlight, snagging the occasional bit of warmth on his face. Ideas were coming, faster and faster now.
In every lie there was usually a kernel of truth. What if Johannsen had been abandoned by his bohemian mother? Abandonment was certainly a reason to harbor resentment. Kolb was convinced that the fiendish murderer loathed his mother. Perhaps Johannsen also detested his mother. But was his hatred strong enough to propel him to murder innocent women?
Johannsen, like Putzi, was involved in the art world. The victims, except for the little girl, had been found in posed positions. Since Johannsen said that he had discovered his mother’s body, Berg began to wonder how she was positioned at the time of her demise. Was her hair framing her face? Did she have on only one shoe? Was this Johannsen’s deviant way of re-creating his mother’s death?
By his own admission, Johannsen’s English was serviceable. Did he also speak Russian? Could he have been the suave, sophisticated (albeit phony) aristocrat that the reporter Green had described?
Berg moved the Dane toward the top of his list.
Last was Berg’s favorite suspect, Rolf Schoennacht.
The most recent murders had been the height of arrogance, and Schoennacht was as arrogant as they come. Schoennacht seemed brutal enough to be a killer. He was also tall and sophisticated and, under the right conditions, could have passed as the man in the sketch. His baldness meant nothing; toupees were readily available. Anyway, hadn’t Leit said that the man had worn a top hat? Plus Schoennacht’s initials were RS, the same as Rupert Schick’s, and their ages roughly matched. Lastly, Schoennacht had a direct connection to Regina Gottlieb.
Ro as in Rolf.
But Schoennacht had been out of town when the last homicides occurred; Berg’s men had watched him go into the train station. Still, it was possible that Schoennacht then changed his mind, deciding at the last minute to attend Hitler’s rally.
Berg stopped walking. His brain was working faster than he could process the ideas. Hadn’t there been a member of Hitler’s Elite walking toward the stage who looked like Rolf Schoennacht?
Yes, Schoennacht definitely belonged at the top of Berg’s list.
Johannsen, Schoennacht, and Hanfstaengl: all of them about the same age, all of them tall, and all of them art dealers. Berg thought about the framing of the victims by their hair: a perfect background for the portrait. Actually, corpses would be ideal models for any painter because once positioned, they never moved.
Maybe those hapless slain women were some kind of perverse collective art project. The killings had similarities but were not identical because there were multiple slayers . . . each artist had created his own interpretation of the same subject. God only knew how many secret societies Germany had birthed.
A cabal of Lustmord. Born in the trenches of the Great War, at a time when murder and duty were intertwined, when rape of the vanquished was common and blood flowed copiously in the Marne, Lustmord took that jump from the battlefield to civilian life, nourished by the avant-garde. How chic and current it was to express sexual murder as an artistic theme in paintings, literature, the stage, film, and photography.
Johannsen, Schoennacht, and Hanfstaengl.
They were a perfectly matched trio in a way—tall, urbane, sophisticated in the latest trends, dealers in modern art. The big difference was in their politics. Schoennacht and Hanfstaengl were ardent supporters of the NSDAP, whereas Johannsen scorned the Austrian.
And what about the Austrian?
If Berg was looking for an arrogant man, Hitler and his putsch embodied haughtiness. Because of his hubris, he had landed in jail. Though the Austrian had been temporarily constrained, he was hardly broken. Even locked up in jail, Hitler had flourished, aided by a cadre of constant supporters. Berg had to think back no further than a few days ago. The lunatic’s rally drew in one hundred thousand cheering Germans. The Austrian had more than enough dedicated acolytes for an entire army.
There were also rumors that Hitler was a bastard, that his father had not died but had deserted his mother at the time of Adolf’s birth. Even though the Austrian’s stepfather had adopted him and given him his name, there was an underlying stigma associated with Hitler’s origins. Such gossip was bound to scar a child, was bound to cause resentment between his mother and him.
But would such a stigma have fostered murderous hatred? And why would the Austrian ruin everything he had worked so hard to rebuild by murdering innocent women . . . and a child as well?
Johannsen, Schoennacht, and Hanfstaengl—all of them dedicated to art.
Hitler, too, because the Austrian had once had hopes of becoming a professional artist. He had even applied to the Academy. His dream was quickly squashed when he was denied entrance to the school. The professors said his work was trite and dull, unoriginal and uninteresting. He was simply not good enough.
All of this was true, in Berg’s opinion. The Austrian’s art was sophomoric and overly sentimental and didn’t have an interesting thing to say about the human condition. Berg’s own art wasn’t much better, but he knew his limitations so he never had the aspirations.
But Hitler was different. He had had expectations—but surely such disappointment would not lead a sane man to murder.
Was Hitler sane?
A bastard child, a man of arrogance, a man who thought he had been given a special gift, only to be judged mediocre or worse. Perhaps the Austrian was out to prove the critics wrong in a very dramatic way.
• • •
Escorted up to the fourth floor, Berg climbed the central staircase fashioned from black walnut, the railing glossy and smooth underneath his hand. The worn jade-colored marble tiles echoed under his footsteps as he walked down a white hallway, passing doors on either side of the foyer. The clerk opened one of the portals and motioned Berg inside. Then he excused himself and shut the door.
Berg took off his police cap, held it to his chest, and looked around. The room was impressive with its vaulted ceilings and big picture windows. It was also crypt cold and drafty. Despite the hiss of hot steam from a clanging radiator, he shivered. The furniture had been kept to a minimum: a long wooden table surrounded by ten wooden chairs. Electric bulbs on wires hung from above, casting amber light. Bookshelves lined one side of the room; the wall opposite the bookshelves held portraits of nameless politicians wearing expressions as stiff as the white collars encircling their necks. Two flagpoles held dual identities: the yellow, black, and red banner of Deutschland, and the blue and white flag of Bavaria. Despite the talk of a united Germany, allegiances changed as often as the direction of the wind.
The door opened, and an attractive, curvaceous redhead laid a stack of folders on the table. Her emerald eyes took in Berg’s face; she was clearly displeased by what she saw. “Where’s the other one?”
“Inspektor Storf?” Her response to his question was a shrug. “He’s in the hospital.”
The emeralds widened. She brought her hand to her mouth. “Is he all right?”
“He was beaten up in the riots.”
She blinked several times. “That’s terrible!”
“Terrible things happen when thugs take over.”
“Where were the police to protect him?”
“Fighting for their own lives. Unfortunately there were more thugs than there were policemen.”
Her hand still covered her mouth. “Can I visit him?”
Berg nodded. “It can be arranged.” She was still staring at him. “When he is able to receive company, I will tell him that I saw you, that you were most helpful with the records regarding the Schick family.” He pointed to the papers on the table. “Those are the records, yes?”
She nodded as her eyes started to moisten. “It isn’t bad enough that we lose our men to foreigners on foreign soil? Now our own are fighting one another? It is insane.”
“You have summed up the situation very succinctly.” He took out his pencil and a notepad. “Again, thank you for your help.”
“Is there anything else you require?”
“An ashtray perhaps.”
“There’s no smoking in here.”
Berg stowed his cigarette tin back in his jacket. “Then I suppose I’m fine.”
Without another word, she turned and slowly walked away, giving him a full view of her swinging hips and tight derriere. For a moment he contemplated calling aloud and asking for tea, a distraction to keep her in his presence. But then the urge along with the moment passed, evaporating like so many of his other missed opportunities.
• • •
THREE HOURS OF READING brought more disappointment than revelation, but the registries did provide Berg with a timetable for Dirk Schick’s ten-year sojourn in Munich. Schick appeared to have arrived in the mid-nineties. A year later, he met and married an American woman named Della Weiss. Eight months passed, and they were blessed with a son whom they christened Rupert.
The family was called back to Russia in 1905, a month after Bloody Sunday, the fateful clash between the Czar’s army and the demonstrators at Saint Petersburg. Bloody Sunday was always touted by politicians as the reason why police should refrain from discharging firearms unless absolutely necessary. Hitler’s thuggery two days ago was apparently not sufficient to warrant “absolutely necessary.” If Ulrich had used a gun, he would have been cited and stripped of his duties.
As far as Berg could tell, the Schick family had never returned to Munich again. From all indications, Rupert had grown up in Soviet Russia as a Soviet citizen. While it was clear that the child spoke Russian, he’d also had the opportunity to learn German while living in Munich. Since the Schick name indicated German ancestry, father and son might have communicated in German, a paternal hope to keep the mother tongue alive. It was equally logical that the American woman, Della Weiss, taught her son some English.
Who was Rupert Schick, and where was he now?
Nothing in the records disclosed those crucial bits of information, but time spent going through Schick’s official papers offered some reward. The registries produced three addresses. Two appeared to be business addresses in business districts, but one was an apartment number bordering the Schwabinger Bach—a small brook of runoff water from the Isar that cut through the Englischer Garten and ran along its western edge. This particular address was at the northern end of the park past the Kleinhesseloher See.
Maybe Rupert Schick was coming home to roost, taking care of some demented unfinished business by murdering women in the park. Just as important, maybe someone remembered Dirk and Della Schick from nearly a quarter century ago, before the family had disappeared from archival records.
FORTY-FOUR
The area along the Schwabinger Bach had always been the Venice of Berg’s imagination. The canal was bordered by the park on the east while graceful homes and apartment buildings lined the western side. All it lacked was a gondolier pushing a boat with a pole. Berg had been to Italy twice, but had never made it to the city. Life was long, he told himself. One day . . .
The water level was high from the recent rains, with only about two meters of concrete embankment exposed. The address he had written down corresponded to a yellow four-story structure covered by spiderwebs of leafless vines. Sprouting from the red tiled roof were a pair of symmetrically placed gables and chimneys. Inside the lobby Berg regarded a bank of mailboxes on his left; the stairs were directly in front of him.
According to the registry, the Schicks had sojourned in Apartment 7. Now the apartment belonged to the Beckmanns. When Berg knocked on the door, a little girl of six or seven answered, staring at him with bright brown eyes while fingering two straw-colored braids. She was attired in the traditional dirndl. Frau Beckmann followed seconds later—an older, less attractive version of the child—and yanked the girl back into the safety of her domicile.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to answer the door?” The little girl’s face scrunched as tears streamed down her cheeks. “No tears, Birgitta. If you are a good girl and wait quietly for Mama inside your room, I will give you a cookie.”
“Chocolate?” Birgitta wiped her tears.
“Almond. But only if you go now.”
The child disappeared. The woman looked at Berg, her eyes moving up and down his uniform. “Grüss Gott.”
“Guten Tag. Inspektor Axel Berg of the Munich Police Department. I am looking for Frau Beckmann.”
“You are an Inspektor?” Suddenly the woman turned white. “Mein Gott! What has happened now?”
“Nothing at all, Frau Beckmann, I assure you that all is in order.” He waited for the woman to catch her breath. On a second look, she was actually quite pretty even with the wrinkles. “You are Frau Beckmann?”
“Yes.” A deep exhalation. “What can I do for you, Inspektor?”
“Actually, I am interested in a family that lived here about twenty-five years ago—”
“We’ve only been living here three years,” she interrupted. “I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”
She started to close the door in his face, but Berg was quick with his foot.
“On the contrary, I’m sure you can help me.”
“I don’t see how!” Her daughter cried out. “I must go—”
“I am looking for someone who might remember them.” Berg had wedged his body across the threshold. “The name was Schick.”
The woman looked blank. “I tell you I’ve only lived here for three years. Why are you bothering me? Go bother the Nazis who throw eggs at the building.”
“I will make a note to have a policeman check out the vandalism.”
The woman’s face was skeptical. “May I go now?”
“It would be cumbersome for me to knock on everyone’s door, Frau Beckmann. Perhaps you know who has lived in the building longest?”
“Try Apartment 11.” Her mouth turned down as she sneered. “Oskar Krieger. That lecherous old coot has been here forever.”
• • •
THE MAN APPEARED to be in his seventies, as thin as a spire with a shock of white hair that fell over his forehead. His complexion showed his age: a mottled palette of liver spots and orange freckles. But his eyes were as clear and lucid as any that Berg had ever seen. They were deep brown with a hint of a twinkle.
Berg introduced himself officially. “I am looking for Herr Krieger.”
“Then you have found him. Are you going to arrest me?”
“Arrest you?” Berg held back a smile. “But what have you done?”
“Nothing at all, but that has never stopped the police before.” He laughed loudly, then opened the door with a dramatic flourish. “Come in, come in. No sense talking out here for all the neighbors to see. That just invites gossip. Not that these old hags need a reason to gossip.”
Berg went inside. The apartment reeked of cigarette ash, not surprising since piles of butts littered the room. In a single moment, Berg counted seven ashtrays. Despite the odor of stale smoke, the room was comfortable. A large plate-glass window provided a lovely view of the park, giving the place an expansive feel despite its cozy size. The walls were hidden by paintings hung wherever there was space, and by shelves holding hundreds of books. There seemed to be no unifying theme in the collection, just book after book spilling out of the units, heaped up on the sofa, and stacked on the floor. The artwork was varied as well, from classical portraits to multicolored Cubist and Expressionist canvases. If Berg looked hard enough, he could discern representational objects, however abstract: a green face, a purple dog, a deconstructed orange and blue cello.
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