Garden of Beasts

by Jeffery Deaver

  But legal jurisdiction and allocation of resources were two very different matters, particularly in these crimes, where the victims were, Raul informed him, Jews and Poles, respectively.

  "We'll let the Gatow gendarmerie handle it," Horcher had told him last week.

  "Homicides of this magnitude?" Kohl had asked, both troubled and skeptical. The suburban and rural gendarmes investigated automobile accidents and stolen cows. And the chief of the Gatow constabulary, Wilhelm Meyerhoff, was a dull, lazy civil servant who couldn't find his breakfast zwieback without help.

  So Kohl had persisted with Horcher until he got permission to at least review the crime scene report. He'd called Raul and coached him in basic investigation techniques and had asked him to interview witnesses. The gendarme promised to send the report to Kohl as soon as his superior approved it. Kohl had received the photographs but no other materials.

  Horcher now said, "I've heard nothing, Willi. But, please--Jews, Poles? We have other priorities."

  Kohl said thoughtfully, "Of course, sir. I understand. I only care that the Kosis don't get away with anything."

  "The Communists? What does this have to do with them?"

  "I didn't form the idea until I saw the photographs. But I observed there was something organized about the killings--and there was no attempt to cover them up. The murders were too obvious to me. They seemed almost staged."

  Horcher considered this. "You're thinking the Kosis wanted to make it appear that the SS or Gestapo were behind the killings? Yes, that's clever, Willi. The red bastards would certainly stoop to that."

  Kohl added, "Especially with the Olympics, the foreign press in town. How the Kosis would love to mar our image in the eyes of the world."

  "I will look into the report, Willi. I'll make some calls. A good thought on your part."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Now, go clear the Dresden Alley case. If our chief of police wants a blemish-free city, he shall have one."

  Kohl returned to his office and sat heavily in his chair, massaging his feet as he stared at the photographs of the two murdered families. It was nonsense what he had told Horcher. Whatever had happened in Gatow, it was not a Communist plot. But the National Socialists went for conspiracies like pigs for slop. These were games that had to be played. Ach, what an education he'd had since January of '33.

  He put the pictures back into the file folder labeled Gatow/Charlottenburg and set it aside. He then placed the brown envelopes of the evidence he'd collected that afternoon into a box, on which he wrote Dresden Alley Incident. He added the extra photographs of the fingerprints, the crime scene and the victim. He placed the box prominently on his desk.

  Ringing up the medical examiner, he learned the doctor was at coffee. The assistant told him that Unidentified Corpse A 25-7-36-Q had arrived from Dresden Alley but he had no idea when it would be examined. By that night possibly. Kohl scowled. He had hoped the autopsy was at least in progress, if not finished. He hung up.

  Janssen returned. "The Teletypes went out to the precincts, sir. I told them urgent."

  "Thank you."

  His phone buzzed and he answered. It was Horcher again.

  "Willi, Minister Goebbels has said that we cannot display the picture of the dead man in the newspaper. I tried to convince him. I was at my most persuasive, I can tell you. I thought I would prevail. But in the end, I was not successful."

  "Well, Chief of Inspectors, thank you." He hung up, thinking cynically: most persuasive, indeed. He doubted the call had even been made.

  Kohl told his inspector candidate what the man had said. "Ach, and it will be days or weeks before a fingerprint examiner can even narrow down the prints we found. Janssen, take that picture of the victim.... No, no, the other one--where he looks slightly less dead. Take it to our printing department. Have them print up five hundred etchings. Tell them we're in a great hurry. Say it's a joint Kripo/Gestapo matter. We can at least exploit Inspector Krauss since it was he who made us late for the Summer Garden. About which I am still perturbed, I must say."

  "Yes, sir."

  Just as Janssen returned, ten minutes later, the phone buzzed once more and Kohl lifted the handset. "Yes, Kohl here."

  "It is Georg Jaeger. How are you?"

  "Georg! I am fine. Working this Saturday, when I'd hoped for the Lust-garten with my family. But so it goes. And you?"

  "Working too. Always work."

  Jaeger had been a protege of Kohl's some years before. He was a very talented detective and after the Party had come to power had been asked to join the Gestapo. He'd refused and his blunt rejection had apparently offended some officials. He found himself back at the uniformed Order Police--a step down for a Kripo detective. As it turned out, though, Jaeger excelled at his new job too and soon rose to be in charge of the Orpo precinct in north-central Berlin; ironically he seemed far happier in his banished territory than in the intrigue-mired Alex.

  "I am calling with what I hope is some help, Professor."

  Kohl laughed. He recalled that this was how Jaeger had referred to Kohl when they were working together. "What might that be?"

  "We just received a telegram about a suspect in a case you are working on."

  "Yes, yes, Georg. Have you found a gun shop that sold a Spanish Star Modelo A? Already?"

  "No, but I heard of some SA complaining that a man attacked them at a bookshop on Rosenthaler Street not long ago. He fit the description in your message."

  "Ach, Georg, this is most helpful. Can you have them meet me where the assault occurred?"

  "They won't want to cooperate but I keep the fools in line if they're in my precinct. I'll make sure they're there. When?"

  "Now. Immediately."

  "Certainly, Professor." Jaeger gave the address on Rosenthaler Street. Then he asked, "And how is life back at the Alex?"

  "Perhaps we'll save that conversation for another time, over schnapps and beer."

  "Yes, of course," the Orpo commander said knowingly. The man would be thinking that Kohl was reluctant to discuss certain matters over a telephone line.

  Which was certainly true. Kohl's motive for ending the call, though, had less to do with intrigue than with the pitched urgency he felt to find the man in Goring's hat.

  "Ach," the Brownshirt muttered sarcastically, "a Kripo detective has come to help us? Look, comrades, here's an odd sight."

  The man was over two meters tall and, like many Stormtroopers, quite solid: from day labor before he joined the SA and from the constant, mindless parading he would now do. He sat on the curb, his can-shaped, light brown hat dangling from his fingers.

  Another Brownshirt, shorter but just as stocky, leaned against the store-front of a small grocery. The sign in the window said, No butter, no beef today. Next door was a bookshop whose window was shattered. Glass and torn-up books littered the sidewalk. This man winced as he held his bandaged wrist. A third sat sullenly by himself. Dried blood stained his shirt-front.

  "What got you out of your office, Inspector?" the first Brownshirt continued. "Not us, surely. Communists could have shot us down like Horst Wessel and it wouldn't've pried you away from your cake and coffee at Alexander Plaza."

  Janssen stiffened at their offensive words but Kohl's glance restrained him and the detective looked the men over sympathetically. A police or government official at Kohl's level could insult most low-level Stormtroopers to their faces with no consequences. But he now needed their cooperation. "Ah, my good gentlemen, there's no reason for words like that. The Kripo is as concerned about your well-being as everyone else's. Please tell me about the ambush."

  "Ach, you're right, Inspector," the larger man said, nodding at Kohl's carefully chosen word. "It was an ambush. He came up from behind while we were enforcing the law against improper books."

  "You are... ?"

  "Hugo Felstedt. I command the barracks at Berlin Castle."

  This was a deserted brewery warehouse, Kohl knew. Two dozen Stormtroopers had ta
ken it over. "Castle" could be read "flophouse."

  "Who were they?" Kohl asked, nodding at the bookstore.

  "A couple. A husband and wife, it seemed."

  Kohl struggled to maintain a look of concern. He looked around. "They escaped too?"

  "That's right."

  The third Stormtrooper finally spoke. Through missing teeth he said, "It was a plan, of course. The two distracted us and then the third came up behind. He laid into us with a truncheon."

  "I see. And he wore a Stetson hat? Like Minister Goring wears? And a green tie?"

  "That's right," the larger one agreed. "A loud, Jew tie."

  "Did you see his face?"

  "He had a huge nose and fleshy jowls."

  "Bushy eyebrows. And bulbous lips."

  "He was quite fat," Felstedt contributed. "Like on last week's The Stormer. Did you see that? He looked just like the man on the cover."

  This was Julius Streicher's pornographic, anti-Semitic magazine that contained fabricated articles about crimes that Jews had committed and nonsense about their racial inferiority. The covers featured grotesque caricatures of Jews. Embarrassing even to most National Socialists, it was published only because Hitler enjoyed the tabloid.

  "Sadly, I missed it," Kohl said dryly. "And he spoke German?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he have an accent?"

  "A Jew accent."

  "Yes, yes, but perhaps another accent. Bavarian? Westphalian? Saxon?"

  "Maybe." A nod of the big man's head. "Yes, I think so. You know, he would not have hurt us if he'd come at us like a man. Not a cowardly--"

  Kohl interrupted. "Might his accent have been from another country?"

  The three regarded one another. "We wouldn't know, would we? We've never been out of Berlin."

  "Maybe Palestine," one offered. "That could have been it."

  "All right, so he attacked you from behind with his truncheon."

  "And these too." The third held up a pair of brass knuckles.

  "Are those his?"

  "No, they're mine. He took his with him."

  "Yes, yes. I see. He attacked you from behind. Yet it's your nose that has bled, I see."

  "I fell forward after he struck me."

  "And where was this attack exactly?"

  "Over there." He pointed to a small garden jutting into the sidewalk. "One of our comrades went to summon aid. He returned and the Jew coward took off, fleeing like a rabbit."

  "Which way?"

  "There. Down several alleys to the east. I will show you."

  "In a moment," Kohl said. "Did he carry a satchel?"

  "Yes."

  "And he took it with him?"

  "That's right. It's where he had his truncheons hidden."

  Kohl nodded to the garden. He and Janssen walked to it. "That was useless," his assistant whispered to Kohl. "Attacked by a huge Jew with brass knuckles and truncheons. And probably fifty of the Chosen People right behind him."

  "I feel, Janssen, that the account of witnesses and suspects is like smoke. The words themselves are often meaningless but they might lead you to the fire."

  They walked around the garden, looking down carefully.

  "Here, sir," Janssen called excitedly. He'd found a small guidebook to the men's Olympic Village, written in English.

  Kohl was encouraged. It would be odd for foreign tourists to be in this bland neighborhood and coincidentally lose the booklet in just the spot where the struggle had taken place. The pages were crisp and unstained, suggesting it had lain in the grass for only a short time. He lifted it with a handkerchief (sometimes one could find fingerprints on paper). Opening it carefully, he found no handwriting on the pages and no clue to the identity of the person who'd possessed it. He wrapped up the booklet and placed it in his pocket. He called to the Stormtroopers. "Come here, please."

  The three men wandered to the garden.

  "Stand there, in a row." The inspector pointed to a spot of bare earth.

  They lined up precisely, as Stormtroopers were exceedingly talented at doing. Kohl examined their boots and compared the size and shape to the sole prints in the dirt. He saw that the assailant had larger feet than they and that his heels were well worn.

  "Good." Then to Felstedt he said, "Show us where you pursued him. You others can leave now."

  The man with the bloody face called, "When you find him, Inspector, you will call us. We have a cell at our barracks. We will deal with him there."

  "Yes, yes, perhaps that can be arranged. And I will give you plenty of time so that you can have more than three men to handle him."

  The Stormtrooper hesitated, wondering if he was being insulted. He examined his crimson-stained shirt. "Look at this. Ach, when we get him, we'll drain all the blood out of him. Let's go, comrade."

  The two walked off down the sidewalk.

  "This way. He ran this way." Felstedt led Kohl and Janssen down two alleys into crowded Gormann Street.

  "We were sure he went down one of these other alleys. We had men covering the far ends of them all but he disappeared."

  Kohl surveyed them. Several alleys branched off from the street, one a cul-de-sac, the others connecting to different streets. "All right, sir, we will take over from here."

  With his comrades gone, Felstedt was more candid. In a low voice he said, "He is a dangerous man, Inspector."

  "And you feel that your description is accurate?"

  A hesitation. Then: "A Jew. Clearly he was a Jew, yes. Crinkly hair like an Ethiopian, a Jew nose, Jew eyes." The Stormtrooper brushed at the stain on his shirt and swaggered away.

  "Cretin," Janssen muttered, glancing cautiously at Kohl, who said, "To be kind." The inspector was looking up and down the alleys, musing, "Despite his own strain of blindness, though, I believe what 'commandant' Felstedt told us. Our suspect was cornered but managed to escape--and from dozens of SA. We will look in the trash containers in the alleys, Janssen."

  "Yes, sir. You think he discarded some clothing or the satchel to escape?"

  "It is logical."

  They inspected each of the alleys, looking into the trash bins: nothing but old cartons, papers, cans, bottles, rotting food.

  Kohl stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, glancing around and then asked, "Who does your shirts, Janssen?"

  "My shirts?"

  "They are always impeccably washed and pressed."

  "My wife, of course."

  "Then my apologies to her for having to clean and mend the one you are presently wearing."

  "Why should she need to clean and mend my shirt?"

  "Because you are going to lie down on your belly and fish into that sewer grating."

  "But--"

  "Yes, yes, I know. But I've done so, many times. And with age, Janssen, comes some privilege. Now off with your jacket. It's lovely silk. No need to repair that as well."

  The young man handed Kohl his dark green suit jacket. It was quite nice. Janssen's family was well off and he had some money independent of his monthly inspector candidate salary--which was fortunate, considering the paltry compensation Kripo detectives received. The young man knelt on the cobblestones and, supporting himself with one hand, reached into the dark opening.

  As it turned out, though, the shirt was not badly soiled after all, for the young man called out only a moment later, "Something here, sir!" He stood up and displayed a crumpled brown object. Goring's hat. And a bonus: Inside it was the tie, indeed gaudy green.

  Janssen explained that they'd been resting on a ledge only a half meter below the sewer opening. He searched once more but found nothing else.

  "We have some answers, Janssen," Kohl said, examining the inside of the hat. The manufacturer's label read, Stetson Mity-Lite. Another had been stitched inside by the store. Manny's Men's Wear, New York City.

  "More to add to our portrait of the suspect." Kohl took the monocle from his vest pocket, squinted it into his eye and examined some hairs caught in the sweatband. "He ha
s medium-length dark brown hair with a bit of red in it. Not black or 'crinkly' at all. Straight. And there are no stains from cream or hair oil."

  Kohl handed the hat and tie to Janssen, licked the tip of his pencil and jotted these latest observations into his notebook, which he then folded closed.

  "Where to now, sir? Back to the Alex?"

  "And what would we do there? Eat biscuits and sip coffee, as our Stormtrooper comrades think we do all day long? Or watch the Gestapo siphon off our resources as they round up every Russian in town? No, I think we'll go for a drive. I hope the DKW doesn't overheat again. The last time Heidi and I took the children to the country we sat outside Falken-hagen for two hours with nothing to do but watch the cows."

  Chapter Eleven

  The taxi he'd taken from the Olympic Village dropped him at Lutzow Plaza, a busy square near a brown, stagnant canal south of the Tiergarten.

  Paul stepped out, smelling fetid water, and stood for a moment, orienting himself as he looked about slowly. He saw no lingering eyes peering at him over newspapers, no furtive men in brown suits or uniforms. He began walking east. This was a quiet, residential neighborhood, with some lovely houses and some modest. Recalling perfectly Morgan's directions, he followed the canal for a time, crossed it and turned down Prince Heinrich Street. He soon came to a quiet road, Magdeburger Alley, lined with four-and five-story residential buildings, which reminded him of the quainter tenements on the West Side of Manhattan. Nearly all of the houses flew flags, most of them National Socialist red, white and black, and several with banners bearing the intertwined rings of the Olympics. The house he sought, No. 26, flew one of the latter. He pressed the doorbell. A moment later footsteps sounded. The curtain in a side window wafted as if in a sudden breeze. Then a pause. Metal snapped and the door opened.

  Paul nodded at the woman, who looked out cautiously. "Good afternoon," he said in German.

  "You are Paul Schumann?"

  "That's right."

  She was in her late thirties, early forties, he guessed. A slim figure in a flowery dress with a hemline well below the knees, which Marion would have labeled "pretty unstylish," a couple of years out of date. Her dark blonde hair was short and waved and, like most of the women he'd seen in Berlin, she wore no makeup. Her skin was dull and her brown eyes tired, but those were superficial qualities that a few square meals and a couple of nights' undisturbed sleep would take care of. And, curiously, because of these distractions it made the woman behind them appear all the more attractive to him. Not like Marion's friends--Marion herself too--who sometimes got so dolled up that you never knew what they really looked like.