Berg remembered what Krieger had told him, how Dirk had been very good to her. Della must have had something very special to make men love her so much. “So now you are saying that Rupert wasn’t Dirk’s son.”
“Exactly!”
“And are you also telling me that Rupert and Rolf had the same father—the anonymous married man?”
“Of course, I couldn’t know that for certain. . . . May God forgive me if I’m wrong, but . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her gaze on her lap. “I’m sure I know who he is . . . was. I knew long before my own husband knew. It was treacherous because the three of them were boyhood friends.”
“The three of them?”
“My father, Herr Schoennacht, and . . . this person.” She had tears in her eyes. “I can’t mention his name because the family is well known in Munich. All I will tell you is that he was a wicked man, Inspektor. A very wicked man because we were just children! He, Herr Schoennacht, and my father were friends from way back in Germany. My father married an American woman and moved to Boston. This man . . . His wife was from a prominent Boston family. He and Herr Schoennacht used to come and visit my father. They used to play with Della and me, acting as the fun uncles. As a matter of fact, we called him Uncle Hansy. That was what particularly appalled Gunnar, that the man was so vile as to seduce Della under my father’s nose. Of course, Herr Schoennacht didn’t find out about it until much later. Then, when I told him what had happened to me . . .”
Berg waited.
This time, the tears gushed out, rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. “He seduced me first, Inspektor! I thought he loved me! I thought . . .” She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “But as soon as Della was just a bit older, he moved on to her. I was so stupid! I just thank God that what happened to Della didn’t happen to me.” She sniffed hard and blew her nose. “I saw him kissing her. He kissed her right in front of me, then winked at me. I was sick for a week afterward. I couldn’t get out of bed. I certainly never talked to him again.”
“He fathered her sons. Maybe she loved him.”
“Maybe she just married Herr Schoennacht so she could move to Munich to be with him.”
“It would be very helpful if I knew his name.”
Hannah shook her head. “What difference does it make?”
“It may be related to some very important police business.” His eyes took in hers. “Very, very important business!”
She remained resolute. “I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you as long as Rolf is alive.”
“Rolf has never been told that Herr Schoennacht was not his father?”
Hannah grew rigid with fright. “I shouldn’t have told you anything. You must promise me never to repeat what I have told you!”
It was time to show sympathy for this old woman’s troubles. “You have lived with this terrible burden for a long time, Frau Schoennacht. Too long! Please don’t feel guilty about talking to me.”
“Then promise you won’t tell Rolf what I told you.”
“I don’t see why I would need to tell him anything about it. Still, it would be helpful if you told me who this treacherous man is.”
“I cannot, Inspektor. I am sorry.”
“Please, Frau Schoennacht. If you can’t tell me now, maybe you can tell me later.”
Hannah nodded. “All right, Inspektor. I will think about it.”
“Consider what I ask of you, bitte. Lives may depend on it!”
The woman bristled. She did not like being pushed into a decision. Berg backed off. “It must have been very hard for you, Frau Schoennacht, raising five children, including your sister’s child.”
“Rolf was never her child. She was never around for him . . . too busy carrying on with her married man. No, Inspektor, the only real mother Rolf has ever known is me. As far as Rolf is concerned, Della is dead and gone.”
Berg wasn’t so sure of that. Surely Rolf had some curiosity about his mother. The sneak visit with the nanny . . . “Is Della—in actuality—dead and gone?”
“I wouldn’t know. When my mother died, Della disappeared from my life for good. Mother used to talk to me about her, so I suppose I had . . . indirect contact with my sister. But now, as far as I’m concerned, Della died years ago.”
“And you took over as the true Frau Schoennacht.”
“Yes, I did. I raised those children the way a mother should raise her children. I was there for them. Not Della—me. I was there!” She looked pointedly at him. “Do you have children, Inspektor?”
“Two, Frau Schoennacht.”
“Then you should understand what I’m saying. Children need a real mother, not just a mother in name.”
“I know that. Motherhood is often a thankless job. Still, it is the most important job in the world.”
“Exactly.” Hannah finished her tea and offered Berg another glass.
“No, danke, but maybe just another poppy-seed cookie.”
“Take some for your children.”
“I will, thank you.”
“Let me wrap them up for you.” She got up slowly and went to find some paper. Berg thought about what she had told him, how she refused to tell him the name of the paramour. But she had allowed it to slip out anyway.
Uncle Hansy.
Anders Johannsen? Except he wasn’t old enough to be one of Hannah’s father’s friends. The man could have been Anders’s father, the merchant seaman. If Hannah hadn’t said something else revealing.
His wife was from a prominent Boston family.
Katherine Hanfstaengl was part of the Boston Sedgewick family. It was a point of pride with her.
In Berg’s mind, Della’s lover was probably Katherine’s husband, and Putzi’s father, Edgar, though he had no way to prove it. Berg longed to ask Hannah more, but he knew that she’d retreat into silence. It wasn’t fair to heap her awful past on her in one visit. Hannah was a lonely woman. He’d come back, and she would welcome him like an old friend . . . and they’d talk again.
If he was correct about Hanfstaengl, it would mean that Schoennacht, Putzi, and Rupert Schick were all half brothers. If Schoennacht or Schick was the man who’d accompanied Anna Gross to the theater, he could very well have been the Putzi Hanfstaengl type.
All three men had reasons to hate Della: To Putzi, she was a home wrecker; Rolf had been abandoned by her; and Rupert hated her because she was a whore. Just maybe Rupert had come back to Germany to settle old scores.
Berg felt he had hit upon something, but at this point, his theories were all conjecture. He was thinking too hard. He needed another mind, a fresh injection of ideas. He needed to pay Georg a visit.
Hannah came back with newspaper and started to wrap up her cookies.
Berg said, “So you haven’t heard from your sister since she moved to the Soviet Union?”
Hannah stopped wrapping. “No, I haven’t. I’ve already told you that.”
“I need to get hold of your sister, Frau Schoennacht.”
“Why?”
“Police matters, Frau Schoennacht. I’m not at liberty to discuss the details. But I will tell you that I must talk to your nephew Rupert Schick right away.”
“That’s not possible, Inspektor.”
“All I need is an address. I promise I will not tell anyone that it came from you.”
“It is not possible for you to talk to Rupert because he died in 1915.”
“In the Great War?”
“I suppose.” Hannah shrugged. “My mother never went into details, and I didn’t ask.”
Then it dawned on Berg what she had just said. “Rupert is dead?”
“One might even say it was God’s retribution.” Hannah quickly gasped. “That was an evil thing to say. The Lord is merciful and forgiving.”
Berg was too shocked to respond. All this time he had been looking for a dead man! A host of new questions came to mind: Who was the Robert Schick on Anna Gross’s calling card? Who was the man in the sketch, the one identified by the
lute player as a Russian? Who was the mysterious Robert Hurlbutt of Harvard? If it wasn’t Rupert Schick, was it Schoennacht or Putzi? Or was Robert Schick another person altogether?
What was he missing?
And then it came to him. “Did . . .” He exhaled and started again. “Did Della ever have any more children?”
Hannah appeared pensive. “You know what?” She nodded slowly. “I think I remember my mother telling me that Della had adopted an orphan shortly after Rupert died . . . a teenage boy whose parents had died in the Bolshevik revolution.”
“So there was another child.”
“I reckon there was. I heard from Mother that Della was finally settling down and adjusting to married life. Maybe it was losing Rupert. Maybe it was the Soviet harshness. Maybe she thought about the child she had given up and decided to do something noble. Or . . . it may have been wishful conjecture on my mother’s part.”
“Would you happen to remember the adopted boy’s name?”
“Yes, I do remember. It was Rodion. A nice Russian name—so I am told.”
“Rodion,” Berg repeated, more to himself than to her.
“I remember it because I thought it was a coincidence. All of my sister’s sons had names beginning with the letter R, even the adopted one!”
FORTY-SEVEN
Fluffing the pillow, Berg placed it behind Müller’s back and helped him sit up in the hospital bed. Georg said, “If all goes right with the medical exam, I should be out of here tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you’ll be glad about that.”
“It cuts both ways, Axel. The nuns here are tyrants, but so is Karen.”
“I would think a known tyrant is better than unknown ones.”
“I’m not so sure about that. You’ve seen Karen when she gets worked up.”
Berg handed him a glass of water. “It’s good you’re on the mend. It’ll be even better to see you up and about.”
Georg laid his hand on his leg cast. “Leaving this place certainly will be a good start.”
“Absolutely.” Berg looked up at the ceiling. “I’ve come from visiting Ulrich—”
“He is having visitors?”
“For only a few minutes at a time. He is off the iron lung.”
“What wonderful news!”
“Yes, the doctors say he’s progressing.” Berg smiled. “He recognized me today . . . actually mouthed ‘Berg.’”
“Ah, but that is marvelous!” Georg handed Berg his empty water glass, then drew the bedsheet over his stomach. “So he is able to talk?”
“In fits and starts.” Berg licked his lips. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.” He looked at Müller, hoping his anxiety didn’t show. “I am almost there, Georg. But I need help.”
“What about Kalmer and Messersmit?”
“Ach, bitte! Those two are sufficient if someone is holding a bloody knife and standing over a dead body. Anything that requires thought . . .” Berg waved his hand in the air.
“We can’t all be clever.” Müller adjusted his position in the bed. “Besides, Axel, you’ve done quite nicely on your own. This Rodion . . . Della’s adopted son. You are assuming he’s the lute player’s Ro.”
Berg shrugged. “I didn’t find any Rodion Schick in the registries, but this man has registered under so many aliases, he could be anyone. The only thing I’d say right now is that we are seeking a man who speaks fluent Russian.”
Müller nodded, stroking his chin as if lost in thought.
“I also think we need to look at Rolf Schoennacht more carefully,” Berg stated. “This Rodion Schick and Schoennacht have the same mother, and Rolf has a direct connection to Regina Gottlieb.”
“Schoennacht wasn’t even in the city when Edith Mayrhofer was slain.”
“Maybe he sneaked back into town.”
“Axel, according to Hannah, Rolf Schoennacht hadn’t seen his mother since she left for Russia. Rolf probably didn’t even know that his blood brother Rupert died in 1915. Why on earth would he be aware of a boy his mother adopted years later? They weren’t even blood relatives.”
Berg bit his lip. “Don’t scoff at this, Georg, but is it possible that Della adopted back her own son after Rupert died?”
“As possible as a man on the moon.” Müller wrinkled his nose. “Berg, how would she even know where to find her lost son?”
“Maybe she kept track of the boy. Maybe she knew he was languishing in an orphanage—”
“Bitte!” Müller shook his head. “Go back to Rolf Schoennacht, Axel. At least he lives in Munich.”
“All right.” Berg smiled. “Let’s look at Schoennacht. He was an illegitimate child whose mother abandoned him. He is angry with her, but he cannot murder her because she is no longer accessible to him. So he does the next best thing in his warped mind. He murders women and blames his acts on his phantom brothers, Rodion and Rupert Schick.”
“Robert Schick.”
“Close enough. The point is, he is exacting revenge on his mother and her bastard children by killing under their names. Schoennacht’s hatred runs very deep. It is a vile hatred that will never be resolved. No matter how many lives he takes, he will kill again until he is stopped. And he must know English. He had an American mother and stepmother.”
“First of all, why would Schoennacht start murdering now after living in Munich as a solid citizen for all his life? Second, in the case of Regina Gottlieb, why would he kill a woman whose death would cast suspicion on him? Third, although I concede it is likely that Rolf probably knows English, you have no proof that he knows Russian. Fourth, Schoennacht wasn’t in town when Edith and little Johanna died. And last, the sketch you have shown around does not look like Rolf Schoennacht.”
“The sketch is general enough to be anyone. If you changed a few features, it could be Rolf.”
“If you changed the features, it could be me.”
Berg wasn’t ready to concede that just yet, but it made no sense to belabor the obvious. He moved on to another avenue of investigation. “What about Putzi Hanfstaengl masquerading as Rodion Schick?”
Müller pondered the idea for a moment. “Hanfstaengl is American, so he would speak English, as well as German. But as far as I know, Hanfstaengl does not frequent bars in Soviet Munich, nor does he speak Russian. Also, Hanfstaengl is decidedly not the man in the sketch.”
“What do you think about Putzi’s father as the sire of Della’s children?”
“If you were a magician, Axel, it would be good to pull rabbits out of hats. But it is very bad for an Inspektor with the Mordkommission. You have no reason whatever to suspect that Hanfstaengl or any of his relatives are involved.”
“Gerhart Leit said the man with Anna Gross was the Putzi Hanfstaengl type.”
“Correct me if I’m mistaken, but Gerhart Leit also made a point of saying the man wasn’t Putzi Hanfstaengl. If I were you, I wouldn’t start any gossip. Hanfstaengl has connections.”
“Hitler?” Berg laughed. “I’m not worried about a thug, a felon, and a foreigner.”
“That’s not what I meant. Hanfstaengl has enough money to hire a top barrister. The family will not tolerate the police circulating unfounded rumors about him.”
“Hannah Weiss Schoennacht referred to the man who tried to seduce her as Uncle Hansy.”
“Interesting, except that Putzi’s father is named Edgar.”
“Hanfstaengl!” Berg pointed out. “What about the last name?”
“Then it would be Uncle Hanfy.” Georg sighed with impatience. “Axel, I will give you credit for creativity, but you have nothing to back up these claims. You don’t like Hanfstaengl because he is rich, he is a snob, his mother is from a rich, blue-blooded American family, and he is a staunch supporter of the Austrian.”
Berg started to speak up in his own defense, but then thought about what Georg was saying. “Actually, you’re correct. I don’t like him for all of those reasons.”
“And you don’t like Schoennacht, either, w
hich is why you keep bringing him up as a suspect.”
“That’s not true . . . well, I don’t like him. But I would have my suspicions whether I liked Schoennacht or not.”
“But we’re not looking for a Bavarian who speaks English. We’re looking for a Russian who speaks fluent German and English. You have a name, my friend. Go back to Soviet Munich and pass the sketch around.” Müller was emphatic. “Look for Rodion Schick!”
Berg threw back his head. “Okay. I’ll go to Soviet Munich and pass around the sketch once again. And I will look for Rodion Schick.”
“Finally!” Müller sunk back into his pillow. “Good man!”
Berg was worried. While he spent hours or days passing around a sketch, the murderer would be plotting his next move.
Who was this fiend?
Berg was not ready to give up on Schoennacht, not after he had seen the Lustmord painting in a prominent place on his walls. The lute player hadn’t said the man’s name was definitely Rodion. He had said the name was Ro, and Ro could be Rolf. Still, it was useless to watch the art dealer’s house since he was out of town. Moreover, there was nothing to suggest that Rolf Schoennacht spoke Russian.
Whoever the mysterious assassin was, he probably wasn’t German-born. Even the American Green mentioned that he spoke German with a slight accent. Yet the murderer came to Munich and must have integrated into Bavarian society sufficiently to woo and capture the hearts of Anna Gross and Marlena Druer—two women who had flirted with Kommunismus. Rodion Schick was definitely Russian. He had been raised under Kommunist rule.
Rodion Schick.
Anders Johannsen came to mind.
Ro as in Jo? Anders wasn’t born in Munich. By his own admission, he had traveled extensively. Could his travels have taken him to Russia for an extended stay? And what about that gold collar around his little dog’s neck? That could have been the murder weapon. Also, it was bizarre that Anders Johanssen had found not just one but two of the bodies. Berg knew that repeat murderers, like Haarmann and the Düsseldorf killer, enjoyed playing a cat-and-mouse game with the police.
On the other hand, Johannsen’s distress after finding Regina Gottlieb had seemed genuine. He also was too old to be Rodion and did not look like the man in the sketch.
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