Paul Wouters had been destined for Sint-Walburga as early as 1898. His mother, having no way to support or handle the already troubling three-year-old, had given him over to her dead husband’s mother, Anne, to raise. It was, perhaps, not the wisest choice given that the recently deceased Jacob Wouters had committed suicide after a short life in which he had been unable to reach beyond the traumas of his own childhood with Anne. That his bride decided to take her own life three weeks after Jacob’s death pretty well set the table for young Paul.
Anne Wouters was a woman of uncommon cruelty. Whatever love she might have felt for her son, Jacob-and there really was none to speak of-had long since dried up by the time her grandson, Paul, was thrust into her life. By then, she had come to believe that the wretchedness of her existence granted her the right to compound that of the boy. Not that she was aware of her malevolence-the most accomplished never are-but she could never have denied the singular pleasure she took at seeing him, hour after hour, slouched over a bobbin and thread. To her mind, it was justice at its most pure.
Before he was five, Paul was taught the art of lace-making; it was the only skill Anne knew, and would have made for an ideal living, filled with camaraderie and pride, had Anne not given birth to Jacob out of wedlock. At the time, there had been rumors of rape-even Anne had let herself believe them for a while-but the truth was that she had simply been foolish. And so went her life: her sin kept her forever from the inner circles; her skill kept her alive. For, whatever else she might have been, Anne Wouters was, without question, a virtuoso with lace. Everyone in Bruges knew it, and it was why the most intricate patterns always found their way to her tiny attic room at the Meckel Godshuizen, one of the more decrepit almshouses in town. At night, and on the sly, women-unable to match her artistry at the mills-would bring their pieces to her and pay her a tenth of what she deserved, all the while telling her that she was damned lucky to be getting any work at all. She would keep her eyes lowered, her head bowed, as they described the meshes they themselves could never achieve, and her teeth would grow sharp from the silent grinding.
When Paul was old enough to handle the pins himself, she put him to work, and for fifteen hours a day they sat in silence, manipulating the thread. He was unusually small, and though his fingers were nimble, they were often overmatched by the tools. Each missed stroke earned him a deep scraping of those tiny hands with a sharp bristle: there were mornings when the blood would still be tacky on his knuckles as he got back to work. Worse was when she fell short of her quota; then she would tie him to a chair and beat him with a strop. She liked the upper back. It was where the bone was closest to the skin.
Paul’s future life could easily have been attributed to the torture of his eight years with Anne. His choice that one night, when he had grown just tall enough to wrest the bristle from her hand and strike it repeatedly into her throat until her neck snapped and the blood spilled out in a pulsating streamlet, would have seemed the reasonable response to an unbearable situation were it not for the fact that Paul Wouters was not a victim of his circumstances. No doctor was needed to explain his horrifying condition. No, the real reason for his behavior was that Paul had been psychotic from his very inception: he had simply needed time to grow into it. Some are born evil, and Paul Wouters was one of the lucky few whose madness was no by-product of his setting. His father, Jacob, had learned to embrace his self-loathing; his mother had eventually succumbed to her self-pity; even his grandmother Anne could look to the world’s viciousness for her own. But Paul needed none of that. He felt no vindication, no joy in his killing. He killed because he could.
He was not, however, the man now lying naked on a slab at Sint-Walburga. In all fairness to the attendants, they had shaved part of the body yesterday afternoon: the top bit of his skull, so that the doctors could cut through and retrieve the brain. The doctors had been certain that the cause of Wouters’s mania would appear to them in the guise of some malformed lobe or conduit. The brain, however-now in a jar of formaldehyde on the shelf-had proved to be in perfect condition. The chief neurologist’s only response had been to utter the words “How very odd,” over and over again.
Yesterday’s disappointment, however, paled in comparison with this evening’s shock. Van Acker stared in disbelief as the thick locks of hair fell to the floor and revealed a face not at all similar to that of Paul Wouters. The shape and coloring of the narrow little body, on the other hand, were close enough to the contours van Acker remembered.
“You’re sure?” said Fichte, keeping his handkerchief over his nose as the attendants continued to scissor through the hair.
Van Acker shot him a frustrated, if tired, glance. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. I’m sure.”
Wisely, Fichte chose not to answer.
Van Acker turned to the gathering of officials who had accompanied the two policemen to the asylum’s laboratory; he knew he was dealing with idiots. He spoke in French: “You mean to tell me that none of you saw an iota of difference in the man’s appearance, his attitude, his behavior?” Fichte might not have understood a word, but he knew that van Acker was taking his frustrations out on the people who could least help him. Worse, the doctors actually seemed to be pleased to have discovered that they had been dealing with the wrong brain: still hope for the lobe theory, after all. “That seems almost impossible to me,” van Acker continued. “Who were the morons who were supposed to be looking after him?”
The Superintendent spoke up: “There’s no need for that sort of language, Inspector. Clearly, a mistake has been made-”
“A mistake?” said van Acker, amazed at the man’s audacity. “What you have here, Monsieur, is nothing less than criminal. Men don’t simply trade places, and, I might be wrong here”-his words were laced with ridicule-“but who do you imagine would have volunteered for that role? I don’t think Mr. Wouters knew anyone who was eager to step in for a few weeks while he took the air. Do you?”
Everyone in the room remained silent. For a moment, van Acker looked at Fichte; he then turned away and began to shake his head. It was clear that he was more than a little embarrassed to have had a Berlin detective inspector witnessing this scene. Had Fichte been a bit more poised in his newfound position, he might have known what to say; instead, he stood there like everyone else.
Van Acker switched gears. For Fichte’s benefit-though probably more out of spite-he spoke in German: “I want a photograph taken of this man; I want every entry log you have for the past five months-who came, who went; I want guard rotations, doctor rotations-any rotation that had to do with our friend Wouters. And anything that might have happened out of the ordinary. The smallest thing. A misconnected telephone call. You have the records. I want to know about them.”
No one moved. Van Acker glanced sharply at the Superintendent, and the man realized he had no choice. He nodded to his colleagues, and the other men started for the door.
Fichte waited until most of the men were out in the hall before turning to van Acker. “The Kriminal-Kommissar would have done the exact same thing,” said Fichte. Realizing he might just have given the game away, Fichte quickly added, “Nikolai, I mean. Hoffner. You work the same way.”
For the first time in nearly three hours, van Acker’s jaw slackened. There might even have been the hint of a grin in his eyes. “You’re not a detective inspector, are you, Herr Fichte?”
Surprisingly, Fichte’s answer was no less forthright. “Not yet, Monsieur Le Chef Inspecteur. No.”
Van Acker’s grin grew. “Well, at least you’ve put me in good company.”
Hoffner reached across the desk for his cup, and checked the clock. He had corralled little Sascha for a second posting to the wire room almost three hours ago, but there was still no word from Fichte. Hoffner took a sip of the coffee, careful not to drip any of it onto the pages that were spread out in front of him.
He had stopped on this particular letter about an hour ago, when the word “relationship” had jumped out at him. The language was as dramatic as ever, but it was a different Luxemburg that Hoffner heard, now having discovered her secret within the shelves.
. . I know you don’t get much pleasure out of our relationship, what with my scenes that wreck your nerves, my tears, with all these trivia, even my doubts about your love. . It’s too painful to think that I invaded your pure, proud, lonely life with my female whims, my unevenness, my helplessness. And what for, damn it, what for? My God, why do I keep harping on it? It is over. .
Her despair was not so much for the solitude to come, as for her own fallibility: she felt no remorse, only a relief in the affair’s dissolution. Once again, Hoffner felt a certain kinship with this Rosa, and that, he knew, was dangerous. Victims needed to remain victims. The only mind Hoffner wanted to find his way into was that of the man who had wielded the knife.
Focusing on the page itself, Hoffner traced the imprints of the razorlike creases. The letter-sent to Leo Jogiches in the summer of 1897-had been read over and over, folded and unfolded a hundred times since then, and with an almost pious precision. Rosa’s fear that Jogiches might have laughed at its absurdity, or at its woman’s insecurity, had been completely unfounded. Not only had Jogiches held on to it, he had kept it with him at all times: in a billfold, from what Hoffner could tell. There was an unrefined, crushed leather residue on the sheets-the kind found only on the inside pockets of a man’s wallet-from years of safekeeping. K was evidently well-enough connected to have pried the letter loose from Jogiches’s grip.
Half an hour ago, Hoffner had discovered its companion piece-a second letter to Jogiches with identical creases and residue-written three years earlier, also kept in the billfold, and equally desperate. This time, however, a different kind of frustration dominated:
. . Totally exhausted by the never-ending Cause, I sat down to catch my breath, I looked back and realized I don’t have a home anywhere. I neither exist nor live as myself. . It’s boring, draining. Why should everyone pester me when I give it all I can? It’s a burden-every letter, from you or anyone else, always the same-this issue, that pamphlet, this article or that. Even that I wouldn’t mind if besides, despite it, there was a human being behind it, a soul, an individual. . Have you no ideas? No books? No impressions? Nothing to share with me?!. . Unlike you, I have impressions and ideas all the time, the “Cause” notwithstanding. . Now I’d like to ask you the following questions: 1. Is it right to say that in 1848 the French people fought mainly for general elections? 2. Did the Chicago demonstration take place in 1886 or 1887? 3. How many rubles to a dollar? 4. Did the strikes of the gas workers and longshoremen in England break out in 1889 and was it for an eight-hour day?. . Read my letter carefully, and answer all questions.
Hoffner wondered if Jogiches had kept the letter as a reminder to himself to be diligent in his humanity, or simply because he had enjoyed the adorable shift in tone at its end. Hoffner was guessing it had been a bit of both.
And yet, however charming Rosa’s caprice might have been, it was the care that Jogiches had taken with the letters that told Hoffner the most about his victim. From what he could gather, the romance between the two had come to a bitter end sometime in 1907: there had been accusations of infidelity and threats of violence from him; Luxemburg had purchased a revolver, and had been forced to produce it during one of their more heated arguments. And through it all, Jogiches had continued to subsidize her-her rent, her paper, her ink. Hoffner was not sure which of the two lovers had been the moth and which the flame-he doubted they had known themselves-but it was clear that this had been a relationship incapable of permanent fracture. In fact, Hoffner was learning just how crucial a figure Jogiches had been during the revolution, even if his name had never once appeared alongside Luxemburg’s, Liebknecht’s, or Levi’s. Jogiches had always been the man behind the scenes, the silent partner.
Hoffner stopped scanning the page. Was he missing the obvious? Had he just uncovered his K, he wondered.
The telephone rang and he picked it up as he jotted down a note to look into Herr Jogiches’s past a bit more closely. “Yes,” he said.
“You’re in for a busy night, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” It was the duty sergeant from the front desk.
“And why is that?” Hoffner continued to write.
“A Schutzi corporal just found another one of your bodies. Markings and all.” Everyone, evidently, was now aware of the case.
Hoffner was on his feet and reaching for his coat when he asked, “Where?”
“Senefelderplatz,” said the man. “In the subway excavations.”
Only once in the courtyard did Hoffner remember Sascha and the wire room. He quickly stopped by the duty desk and asked the Sergeant to get a note to the boy: should anything come in, he was to bring it up to the site. The man understood. Hoffner also told him to telephone the porter at his own building in Kreuzberg; a direct call to Martha at this hour would only frighten her. Still, she liked to know when he would be late. No reason. Just that he would be late.
Hoffner decided to walk. It took him less than twenty minutes to make his way to the square; this time, however, Wouters’s pattern eluded him. These were not the wide avenues around the Unter den Linden; here the streets and alleys were too narrow, and the turns too clipped and sporadic, to give Hoffner the precision and line that he needed to enter the design. Even the people and cabs were too few to bring the buildings to life. Hoffner knew better than to expect anything from this part of town. He was skirting the edge of Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin’s underbelly, a place of stifled quiet after dark. If nothing else, the pattern demanded movement, and there was none to be found here.
More than that, Wouters and his pattern were no longer abstractions. Hoffner had no need to conjure them, and that made them somehow less his own.
He turned in to the empty square and followed the echo of a barking dog across the cobblestones and over to the site. A glowing red ember, perhaps two meters wide, stared like an angry sun from a poster painted onto the brick of one of the building walls. It was an advertisement for men’s shirts. The cigarette drooped from a mouth that was beyond the reach of the lamplight. A sharp chin in profile balanced the dark blue of the starched collar, and yet, even cut off at the lips, the Henzeiger Mann remained the picture of elegance. According to the print, he was also now stain-resistant.
A lone Schutzi patrolman had leashed the dog to a lamppost and was doing all he could to calm the animal with his boot. The mutt was big, and his white teeth glistened in the light each time he chopped his head forward in another snarl. The patrolman was young and having his fun as he slapped at the dog’s head before each quick kick to the gut. The dog, however, seemed undeterred by the taunting: his eyes peered menacingly at the darkened entry to the excavations as ribbons of hot steam poured from his nostrils. Hoffner approached and pulled out his badge.
“Enjoying yourself, patrolman?” he said, the reprimand clear enough in his tone.
At once the boy stood upright. The sight of Hoffner’s badge produced a wonderful blend of confusion and embarrassment. “Herr Detective,” he said. “No. I’m just-” He offered the only excuse he had. “He’s got to be put down. He’s had the taste of blood.” The patrolman actually seemed to believe his own justification. “It’s in his eyes, Herr Detective,” he added. “Nothing we can do. Just waiting for the wagon, that’s all.” The growling continued unabated.
Hoffner might have conceded the point: the dog’s eyes had, in fact, glazed over. That, however, did not make this patrolman any less contemptible. Hoffner said, “The dog found the body?”
The question caused a moment’s confusion. Evidently the boy had never been included on an investigation. Hoffner guessed that he was the halfwit who was always told to stand outside, or wait downstairs, or sit in the hall so as to keep any interested passersby at bay. Tonight he had been given the dog. Even that had overtaxed his resources.
“Yes, Herr Detective,” he finally said. “About an hour ago. Someone heard the howling. They called my sergeant. He’s-”
Hoffner cut him off. “And they’re down in the site?” The patrolman nodded. Hoffner waited for more, then pressed, “Is there a ladder, a ramp?”
Instantly the patrolman understood. “Oh yes,” he said eagerly. “This way, Herr Detective.” He led Hoffner across a series of wooden planks and through the entryway. Lamps along the scaffolding lit their way down and into the pit. At the base of the ramp, the patrolman pointed to the top of a ladder another ten meters on, which disappeared into the depths of the excavation.
“So, a ramp and a ladder,” said Hoffner with mock enthusiasm. The patrolman stared for a moment and then nodded slowly. “Never mind,” said Hoffner. He was about to head for the opening when he said, “And no more business with the dog. We’re clear on that?” The patrolman nodded sheepishly. “Good. Now get back to your post.”
The patrolman was already up the ramp and gone by the time Hoffner reached the ladder. Bending over for the first rung, Hoffner heard a movement off to his side, and immediately spun toward it, as a figure emerged from the darkness.
It took him a moment to recognize little Franz. The boy had been leaning up against a mound of cleared earth. “I thought it was you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” Franz said as he approached.
Hoffner stood there, waiting for his heart to slow. He stepped away from the ladder. “You startled me, Franz.”
The boy looked genuinely surprised. “Did I? Then I wish I’d brought a towel for you.”
Hoffner remembered this morning’s episode at the washbasin. “Fair enough.” He noticed how threadbare the boy’s coat had become, and how exposed his little neck was without a scarf. Franz, however, was showing no signs of the cold. Tough little man, thought Hoffner. “What are you doing here, Franz?”
“What you told me, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Following Herr Kvatsch.”
Hoffner understood at once. He peered over at the ladder, then back at the boy. “When did he get here?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“He received a telephone call?”
Franz had grown accustomed to the accuracy of Hoffner’s guesses. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“Where?”
“Reese’s Restaurant.”
“With anyone?”
“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
Hoffner nodded. Kvatsch’s star was rising: he was being permitted a firsthand account this time round. Someone wanted the story on the front page, not the fourth. That, however, was not the boy’s concern. “So,” said Hoffner, switching gears as he pulled out his cigarettes. “Any interesting names on the list?” He lit one up and watched as Franz stared eagerly at the ember. The boy continued to gaze as Hoffner exhaled a wide plume of smoke. “All right,” said Hoffner reluctantly. He reached into his pocket and offered one to Franz. The boy took two. “You’d do better to get yourself a scarf, Franz,” said Hoffner as he watched the boy slip the extra one into his pocket. Franz nodded curtly, then placed the cigarette in his mouth. He waited while Hoffner lit it.
“Kriminal-Bezirkssekretr Groener,” said Franz. “Over lunch.” Smoke streamed from his small nose. “They were together maybe five minutes. I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying.”
A little obvious, thought Hoffner, but why not? The question remained, Was Groener clever enough to have had a reason to leak the story? Spite hardly seemed a sufficient motive. Hoffner said, “The next time they meet, you come and get me. All right?” The boy nodded. “Good. Now get yourself back to the Alex. You can leave the list on my desk.” Hoffner would have liked to have had Franz wait around and trail after Kvatsch for the rest of the night, but the boy had been out in the cold long enough for one day. Then again, from the way Franz was working the cigarette, Hoffner might just have been underestimating him; Fichte could have taken lessons. “And stay at the Alex,” Hoffner added with a bit more grit. “No slipping out tonight, all right?” For a moment Franz looked as if he might play the innocent; instead, he nodded.
Hoffner walked back with him until they were halfway up the ramp. He had a sudden impulse to pat the boy on the shoulder, but the gesture seemed wrong. Luckily, Franz gave him no time to consider it; with a strangely knowing nod, the boy darted up the remaining few meters and out through the entryway.
Hoffner watched him go. The patrolman was busy elsewhere and took no notice; the dog kept his gaze on the site. Its barking, however, had become hoarser. Hoffner could almost hear a desperation in its throaty growls, as if the dog knew that the measure of its time was spent the moment its last salvo came to an end: it was holding on for as long as it could. Hoffner continued to watch as Franz-once more a ten-year-old boy-crept up to within a few meters of the dog and let go with a howl of his own. The dog responded with a sudden and renewed vigor; Franz howled again and raced off. The patrolman spun around and shouted after Franz, but the boy was already lost to the shadows. The dog, however, had regained full pitch. Franz had given him new life. Hoffner turned and headed back into the pit.
The climb down was shorter than he expected. The Rosenthaler Platz site had been a good twenty meters deep; here it was, at best, ten to twelve, which made the air less thick, though the smell of decaying flesh was no less present. It was also a less complex layout than before. There were no spokes or distant caverns to navigate, just a long tunnel, dimly lit by a series of string lights hung from above. Various air pumps with ventilation hoses sat silent along the dirt floor, but it was clear that this station was still under construction: the wood slats along the walls were freshly cut, the steel beams still had a shine to them, and the piles of shovels and picks were placed for easy retrieval. From the cigarette butts strewn about, Hoffner was guessing that a crew had been here as recently as yesterday afternoon, maybe even this morning. The supply lines were back up and running.
A sudden flash of light drew his attention to the far end of the tunnel. He began to make his way toward it as the din of conversation grew more distinct.
“. . completely in the buff,” came a voice. “I’m telling you. And she wasn’t shy, either.”
The men laughed. One of them caught sight of Hoffner and his expression hardened at once.
“Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he drew up with his badge held at eye level. “Quite a little gathering.” There were four of them: a Schutzi sergeant, his patrolman lackey, a man with a camera, and, of course, Herr “Detective” Kvatsch. They were standing to the side of a woman’s dead body. Hoffner returned the badge to his coat pocket. “I see we’ve already started in on the group photos.”
There was a stiffness to the quartet now that Hoffner had arrived. The sergeant was unsure how to respond. He went with what he knew best. “We found her about an hour ago, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar-”
“Yes,” Hoffner cut in. “Your man upstairs filled me in on the details.” It was clear from the sergeant’s expression that the man upstairs had been told to give more than just the details when the Kripo arrived: a little warning would have been nice. Another botched job from the halfwit, Hoffner imagined. “How fortunate that our friends from the BZ arrived so quickly to keep you company.”
Kvatsch said, “As always, one step ahead of the Kripo, Herr Detective.”
“Or one phone call,” said Hoffner. He waited a moment, then added, “I hear the bean soup was particularly nice at Reese’s tonight.” Hoffner watched as Kvatsch’s lips shifted into double time. Hoffner then turned to the sergeant. “I’m assuming you’ve got my cut, Herr Wachtmeister.” The sergeant looked almost relieved. He began to reach into his tunic; Hoffner’s gaze soured instantly. “Greedy and stupid, eh, Sergeant?” Again, the man was at a loss. “That’s a dangerous combination, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, Hoffner reached over and took the camera from the fourth member of the party. He opened the back cover and removed the film.
“Excuse me, Detective,” said Kvatsch, now with an edge to his voice, “but I paid for that,” as if anything he said mattered down here.
Hoffner said, “Well, then, that was a bad investment, wasn’t it, Herr Kvatsch?” Hoffner crumpled the film in his fist and handed the camera back to the man. The photographer seemed wholly indifferent; Kvatsch had evidently already paid him for his services. “Who made the call?” said Hoffner.
Kvatsch said, “I thought you’d have that figured out by now, Detective. Wasn’t that the promise?”
Hoffner smiled stiffly. “Someone’s leading you around by the nose, and you don’t even realize it, do you?”
“We’ll see who’s leading whom.”
Hoffner nodded. “I thought newspapermen were supposed to track down stories, Kvatsch, not have them spoon-fed to them.”
Kvatsch was not biting. He answered coolly, “You want a name. I need a photograph. That seems a fair trade.”
“Does it?” said Hoffner.
Kvatsch actually thought he was gaining the upper hand. “You know, it’s so much nicer dealing with you than with your old partner. Knig never understood the art of negotiation. Always too quick with the rough stuff.”
Hoffner started to laugh to himself until, without warning, he grabbed the scruff of Kvatsch’s coat and shoved him against the planks on the near wall. The other men immediately stepped off. Slowly, Hoffner brought his face to within a few centimeters of Kvatsch’s. He held him there and spoke in an inviting tone: “That’s just what this city needs, isn’t it, Kvatsch? Something else to set it off in a panic.” Kvatsch was doing his best to maintain some semblance of calm. He swallowed loudly. Hoffner continued: “Revolution, war, starvation-they’re not enough for you, are they? You know, if you had half a brain, you’d realize that that’s exactly what your ‘Kripo sources’ want.” Hoffner smiled quizzically. “Why is it that you always have to be such an obvious rube?”
The sheen on Kvatsch’s face had begun to glisten in the low light; nonetheless, he remained defiant. “Glad to see you’ve picked up where Knig left off, Detective. By the way, “ he said more insistently, “how is the widow? I never got to pass on my condolences.”
Hoffner continued to stare into the callous little eyes. With a sudden surge, he pulled Kvatsch from the boards and slammed him into a bare patch of muddied rock. Kvatsch winced as he let out a blast of tobaccoed breath. He was clearly in pain, but said nothing. Hoffner held him there for several seconds longer, then let go and stepped away. He turned his attention to the dead body. “We’re done here.” Hoffner crouched down and began to scan the dead woman’s clothes: the dog had gotten to them; her blouse was in tatters. “Make nice with the good sergeant, Kvatsch, and get out.”
Kvatsch needed a moment to pull himself together. The sergeant-perhaps out of a twisted sense of loyalty-tried to help, but Kvatsch quickly pushed him aside. With a forced ease, Kvatsch straightened his coat and smoothed back the loose strands of his hair. He then spoke, undeterred by the back of Hoffner’s head: “What you’ve never understood, Detective, is how little it matters what you do, or how you do it. What matters is how it’s perceived.” Kvatsch knew there would be no response; even so, he waited. “And all for a little photo.” He nodded to the cameraman to start back for the ladder. Kvatsch was about to follow, when he added, “How much easier your life could have been, Detective.” He let the words settle. “Shame.” He then followed the cameraman out.
Hoffner waited until the sound of footsteps had receded completely. Without looking up, he said, “You two can wait upstairs, as well.”
The sergeant bristled at being lumped in with his subordinate. He offered a clipped bow to Hoffner’s back, then motioned officiously to the patrolman. The two men started off.
“Oh,” said Hoffner, still with his back to them. “And we’ll need a Kripo photographer down here. Tell him he can catch a ride in the ambulance.” Hoffner paused a moment. “And my guess is he won’t be paying, Sergeant.”
This time there was no bow. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
Finally alone, Hoffner stared down at the chiseled back through the strips of cloth: the ruts were again smooth, and the little bumps from the flawed blade appeared again at perfect intervals. She had been killed like the others, strangled and etched elsewhere-two, maybe three days ago, from the smell and look of the skin-then brought here to be put on display: the drag lines in the dirt-from some sort of crate or trunk-made that clear enough. Hoffner glanced at the side of her face. This woman had been in her late fifties. Her hands told of work in a mill: there were countless wisps of threaded cloth trapped beneath the fingernails, all of which had come to resemble little calluses on her skin. These were the by-product of years on the line, not souvenirs from any recent struggle. Not that she could have put up much of a fight. Like all of the victims, she was small, even delicate, if one put aside the gnarled texture of her hands. That, too, was a common trait: hands that had known a life of labor.
Unlike the others, however, her neck was horribly distended. Hoffner jabbed the end of his pen into the swollen flesh. That was more of the dog’s handiwork. Its teeth marks were still fresh in the fleshy skin just below the chin, yet the back had gone untouched. Instinct, thought Hoffner. Even the animal had sensed the depravity there and had kept clear.
He looked up and scanned the surrounding area. He knew he would find nothing: Wouters, or Wouters’s surrogate-Fichte would have to clear that up-was always far too careful to leave anything behind. Luxemburg and Mary Koop had been diversions: the killer was now back on form.
Hoffner placed a finger on her skin. It was cold and tough and greaseless. He ran his hand along the diameter-cut. The ridges of hardened flesh bent back easily against the pressure of his thumb. There was something oddly consoling in its familiarity, in the shape and texture of a pattern that he had known so well up until a week ago. Now there was far more to it than that: jagged ruts, and gloves, and grease, and a name, and a revolutionary, and on and on and on. It was all supposed to bring him closer to a solution, and yet, with each new “discovery,” Hoffner felt himself being drawn toward something that had little to do with the deaths of his five unremarkable and unconnected Berlin women. He was beginning to wonder where the diversion really lay.
Ten minutes later, Hoffner stepped back out into the raw air of Senefelderplatz. The chill settled on his face and, for an instant, let him forget all of the pieces that were flying through his head. Sadly, the first image that made its way back in was of Kvatsch. Hoffner knew that the first explosion of articles would appear in tomorrow’s papers. A lovely sense of panic would sweep over the city as the story jumped from the BZ to the Morgenpost, and up and down the Ullstein line, until, like a brush fire, it would leap across the avenue to the Mosse and Scherl presses, and blaze across the headlines of all of their high- and low-end papers. Kvatsch had probably come up with some clever name for the murders already. It was irrelevant what he had seen: he would invent what he needed. And a million eyes would now be peering over Hoffner’s shoulder, waiting and wondering.
The ambulance was still nowhere in sight. Hoffner knew there was no reason to wait; there was nothing else he could do here tonight. He had started across the square when he heard the sound of the sergeant running up from behind him. Hoffner dug his hands into his coat pockets and continued in the other direction. He spoke over his shoulder: “The ambulance,” he said. “Make sure she gets back to the Alex.” A mumbled, “Yes, Herr Krim. .” faded into the distance as Hoffner picked up his pace.
It was only then that he realized how quiet the square had become. Hoffner glanced over at the lamppost. He noticed that a small, horse-drawn wagon had pulled up under the light; a rifle was propped up against its back wheel. The horse stood content with a bag of oats, while the driver struggled to untie the leash from the post. Hoffner stopped.
The leash was now heavy from the weight of the dog’s lifeless body. The man had shot it once, in the throat. Save for an occasional bob of the head from each yank on the line, the dog lay quiet in a pool of its own blood. This time there had been no Franz to save it. Hoffner waited until the man had freed the dog. He then slowly headed off.
Van Acker checked the bottle before pouring out three more shots of whiskey.
The Bruges Stationsplein bar was not perhaps best known for its quality of stock, but it always kept enough of it flowing freely to satisfy the detectives of the city Politie. The rest of the station clientele had to be content with a Tarwebier or Chimay, tasty beers to be sure, but neither with enough of a kick to smooth over a ride out of town. Whiskey, on the other hand, always let you sleep. Mueller took his glass and raised it in a toast. Fichte was having trouble finding his.
“To your left, Detective,” said van Acker; he brought his own up to meet Mueller’s. Fichte eventually got hold of his and, spilling most of it on his pants, reached up to join them. “That’s very good, Detective,” said van Acker. He finished with the toast: “To finding one’s glass.”
Mueller and van Acker tossed theirs back. Fichte thought for a moment, let out a long breath, then placed his untasted back on the bar.
Mueller said, “Well, at least you tried.”
The last train to Berlin was set to leave Bruges in the next twenty minutes; it promised an eleven-o’clock arrival in Berlin tomorrow morning, and, with any luck, would get there by two. Still, it was quicker than waiting for first light; at best, Mueller could get Fichte to Berlin by early evening, and that was not accounting for weather or stops for fuel and oil. No, the train was the best bet. Van Acker had insisted. He had also used his pull with a certain transportation minister-a man whose wife had yet to learn about a young lady he was keeping in a lovely gabled house near the Begijnhof-to make sure that Fichte would have no trouble with any military delays at the German border.
Van Acker had come to this decision just after he and Fichte had stripped the asylum clean of every piece of paper having to do with Wouters: correspondence logs, visitor logs, psychiatric reports, staff interviews, medical files, the last of which had included details of Wouters’s eating and digestive habits-Fichte had been amazed to discover just how many varieties shit came in-all dating from the beginning of September. Plus, van Acker had taken them back via his office so as to pick up his personal case files on Wouters.
The train, though, was another matter. Fichte had wanted to send a wire to Berlin, just in case Hoffner had any other instructions. Van Acker had convinced him otherwise: better to bring all the necessary documents to Berlin by tomorrow morning than to lose valuable time to the drawn-out exchange of cables. “Don’t you agree, Detective?” Fichte had nodded quietly. The more he drank, however, the less he was looking forward to having to ask that question of Hoffner in person.
They had rounded up Mueller about an hour ago. Mueller, of course, had been disappointed to hear that he would be making the return flight solo, but once the invitation had been extended to join them for a few farewell drinks, all was forgiven.
“I still don’t see why you don’t come along,” said Fichte to van Acker. “Your case. You know the man better than anyone.” It was the first coherent thing Fichte had said in the last half-hour.
“I appreciate the offer,” van Acker said, “but not my jurisdiction. I had my chance.” He stared down at his glass. “I’m also guessing Herr Hoffner wouldn’t be that keen on the company.” Fichte tried to disagree, but van Acker continued: “I don’t want our friend back in Belgium,” he said with a sudden resolve. “And I don’t think you’ll want him in Germany, either.”
Fichte understood. Van Acker had failed to kill Wouters; he was telling Hoffner not to make the same mistake.
An amplified voice announced the train’s final boarding. Mueller tossed back Fichte’s untouched whiskey, and the three men headed out to the platform.
“They won’t wake you at the border,” van Acker said to Fichte as they walked. “I’ve seen to that.”
Fichte nodded his thanks.
Van Acker continued. “Tell Herr Hoffner-” He tried to find the words. “Tell him I would have loved the chance.”
The men stopped at the steps up to Fichte’s car, and, placing his valise on the platform, Fichte said, “My guess is, so would he, Monsieur Le Chef Inspecteur.” Van Acker appreciated the gesture. He said nothing.
“All right,” said Mueller impatiently. “If he’s going to be sleeping the whole way there, you and I’ll need to make up for his lack of commitment.”
Van Acker had known Mueller for less than an hour and was already a devotee. “One of us has a wife, Mueller,” said van Acker with a grin.
Mueller said, “Well, don’t look at me.”
The whistle blew, and Fichte gathered up his things. “I leave you in good hands, Chief Inspector,” he said. He shot a glance at Mueller. “Well, at least a few good fingers.”
Mueller laughed. He then turned to van Acker. “You do keep your pants on until the second course, don’t you, Inspector? Not like the Berlin boys?”
Fichte mounted the steps and van Acker said, “I’ll expect cables.” Fichte turned back and nodded. “Safe journey,” said van Acker. Another nod from Fichte. Van Acker then slapped Mueller on the back and started off. “Come on, Toby. I’ll introduce you to my wife.”
Fichte was out cold by the time the train had reached the outskirts of town.
At ten-thirty, Hoffner stopped by the wire room to send Sascha up to the attic for the night. It was too late for a cable now, not that he needed one to tell him what they had found. Anything other than Wouters would have caused a minor panic. Fichte, no doubt, had his hands full. Still, Hoffner would have liked to make sure that Fichte was loading them down with the right material. That, however, would have to wait for tomorrow.
It was nearly eleven, then, when Hoffner finally turned onto Kremmener Strasse.
He had long ago dispensed with the empty distinctions between character and weakness, at least when it came to decisions like these. To his mind, only men who claimed to have no choice struggled with those labels: to them, lack of choice granted a kind of freedom from consequence, or at least a softening of responsibility. Their angst, their wailing, their mea culpas of self-betrayal, all stemmed from that initial claim of powerlessness. Hoffner had never been that stupid or that impotent. He knew there was nothing inevitable about his seeing Lina. He was making the choice to venture back into the familiar of the unknown, and she was willingly inviting him in. Of course, had he seen Lina as anything more than that, he might have persuaded himself to hope for more, and that would have been dangerous. Hope fostered despair, and Hoffner had no desire for either.
The moon had broken through, and the houses melded into one another like a wide sheet of chalky gray stone. Lina’s building stood in the middle of the row, six wide steps leading up to its stoop, which boasted two flower boxes, each with a clump of frozen mud and a few gnarled twigs as reminders of some distant strains of life. Like the street itself, the boxes lay barren. Kremmener was one of the last outposts of the city’s Mitte district, a single street removed from the criminal haunts of Prenzlauer Berg. Ten years ago the gulf between the two would have been immeasurable; now it was a distinction only in name.
Lina had found a room on the top floor of Number 5, and although a woman living alone was far less of a shock these days-especially in this part of town-she had taken a roommate. Elise worked the coat-check room at the White Mouse. She was someone to know, according to Lina, a girl who was moving up. She was also rarely home before 2:00 a.m., and was infamous for forgetting her keys. A ring of the bell and the sound of scurrying feet up the stairs no longer drew the watchful eye of the landlord. He had grown fond of Elise and equally accustomed to her late-night, keyless returns.
Hoffner, with no inkling of a roommate, rang the bell anyway. He suspected that Lina had taken care of any possible awkwardness, and he was right. Two minutes into his wait, she appeared through the glass and opened the door. She was wearing a long lilac dressing gown that pretended to be silk, with tatty little ruffles at the sleeves and collar. On anyone else, they might have seemed vulgar; on her, they looked playful. She had kept her hair up, the tight ringlets along her forehead holding firm in a little row of Os that, from a certain angle, seemed to be oohing at him. She was wearing a bit more rouge than he remembered from this afternoon. Hoffner liked that.
She quickly put a finger to her lips. In a loud voice she said, “Nice and early tonight, Elise. That’s a lucky break.” Lina stifled a laugh and motioned for Hoffner to head up the stairs. He did as he was told; she followed.
The room was more cluttered than he had imagined. The slant of the roof left little space for windows. Two small ones, recessed into narrow alcoves, peered up more than out, and gave a cropped view of the starless sky. Everything else also came in twos-bed, dresser, chair-except for the small stove and washstand. Those the girls shared. Hoffner noticed a large rectangular gap on one of the walls. A picture had clearly hung there for years. He wondered what could have been so offensive as to merit its removal.
“A bare-bosomed slave girl,” said Lina, having followed his gaze. “Horrible. She was being sold to some old letch, or something like that. We hated it.” Lina closed the door. She saw Hoffner reaching for his cigarettes. “Not in the room, please,” she said. Hoffner found the request charming. Or perhaps Lina was more concerned with Fichte’s highly developed sense of smell. Hoffner returned the pack to his pocket.
She moved past him and over to an icebox that he had failed to see until now. She opened it and pulled out a plate of various goodies: crackers and pastes and cheeses, and something that looked like chocolate. Hoffner knew otherwise; Lina could never have afforded the real thing. She placed the plate on a small side table by the bed. Two glasses and a bottle of kmmel already stood at the ready.
Hoffner said, “I wasn’t expecting all of this.”
Lina continued to organize the treats. “So you were thinking it would be off with your pants and into bed,” she said with a smile as she pulled open a drawer and retrieved a few more crackers. She placed them along the rim of the plate. “I thought you’d be hungry.” She licked at a bit of paste that had grazed one of her fingers. “I also thought you’d be here a bit earlier. The paste’s too cold now. Oh, well.” She smoothed out the blanket on her bed and sat. She motioned for Hoffner to join her.
Hoffner took off his coat.
“Just there on the chair,” she said, pointing across the room.
Hoffner laid his coat across the chair and then joined her on the bed. He sat with his hands on his thighs. He said nothing. Lina reached over and poured out two glasses of the liqueur. A bit dripped on her hand, and again she quickly lapped it up. She handed Hoffner his, and they toasted. Lina then placed hers back on the table before bringing the plate to the bed and setting it between them.
“The other bed,” he said. “I’m assuming that one belongs to Frulein Elise.”
Lina handed him a cracker with a thin slice of cheese. “She knows not to come home before two. We’ve plenty of time.”
Hoffner was unsure how to react to the precision of the night’s planning. He took a bite; the cheese had no taste, at all. He said, “She’s used to this sort of thing, your Elise? Does it on a regular basis?”
Lina looked up. The implication was obvious. She smiled disingenuously. “She’s at the White Mouse most nights.” She took a cracker for herself. “And she does it only for Hans. There haven’t been any others.”
“I didn’t imagine there were,” he said.
Lina chewed as she stared at him. Her smile softened. “So,” she said. “Do you like my little place?”
Hoffner took another quick scan. “Very nice.” He reached for a piece of the faux chocolate. To his amazement, it was real.
“Not expecting that, either, were you?”
“No,” he said. “Not that, either.”
He was enjoying the chocolate’s sweetness when, very gently, she reached over and started to undo his tie. No less gently, Hoffner reached up and took hold of her arm. He held it there. Lina peered at him, unsure why he had stopped her. For a moment she looked almost fragile.
“Why?” he said calmly. There was nothing uncertain in his question, no need for affirmation. He simply wanted to know. “Why me?”
She brought her hand back to her lap. It was something she had never considered. It took her a moment to answer. “Does it matter?” she said.
Hoffner held her gaze. “Yes. It does. Why?”
Again she waited. “Don’t look at me that way,” she said. Hoffner said nothing; he continued to stare. “With your eyes like that.” Her smile grew uncomfortable. “It’s too much. . looking.”
Hoffner waited, then dropped his eyes to the plate. He took another wedge of cheese. “Better?”
“Much.”
He brought the cracker to his mouth. “So. . how much do you pay for this place, you and your Elise?”
Lina once again had her glass. “Are you planning on helping out?” she said with a coy smile. She took a sip.
Hoffner laughed quietly. “I don’t imagine that’s the way this is going to work.”
“The way what’s going to work?” she said with mock innocence. “Oh, this. No, I don’t imagine it will.”
“You split it?”
Lina said, “You’re awfully concerned with how I’m getting on. At tea today, wondering whether the flowers were enough, now my rent.”
“Sorry,” said Hoffner. “I won’t ask anymore.”
“No. It’s nice.”
“Good.” Hoffner finished off his cracker. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
She casually placed her glass back on the table. “Forty. Yes. We split it. Twenty each.”
Hoffner watched as her neck twisted with the movement. It was almost a perfect neck. “That’s not the question I meant.”
She turned back. “I know. I haven’t come up with an answer for that one, yet.” Without waiting for him, she reached over and took his glass. She set it on the table, then did the same with the plate. Hoffner knew exactly what was coming, yet he did nothing. He sat there as she moved closer, as she untied her dressing gown and let it drop off her shoulders. It spilled into a pool of silk by her thighs. She was wearing a nightgown beneath, pale white and thin, with two ribbon straps over her shoulders. Her small breasts were almost lost, save for the deep crimson of her nipples that puckered at the cloth.
Hoffner could smell the tangy sweetness of the rosewater in her hair. Her neck arced slightly, and he could see a thin ridge of powder that had gone unsmoothed by her chin. He felt a distant weakness in his arms and legs.
She slowly took his hand and placed it on her waist. “How many do I make, Nikolai?” she said. Hoffner felt a heat below the gown, the suppleness of her skin. “Girls like me,” she said. “The ones that mattered. How many?”
Hoffner followed the moisture of her lips. Without warning, he pulled her into him. He saw her eyes widen as she let out a sudden breath. She showed no vulnerability, no guile. He could taste the saltiness of her breath.
“How many?” she said.
“Six,” he answered without having to consider the number for even a moment.
Lina’s smile returned. The total was irrelevant. All she had wanted was an answer. She placed her hand on his cheek and brought him into her.
Twenty minutes later, Hoffner was asleep, his naked backside still glistening from the exertion. Lina pulled the blanket over him. She liked the weight of his arms and chest on her, the thick flesh of his back as his breathing grew heavier. He had taken her without reserve, and had left her spent. She had never felt such hunger in a partner. She could still feel him inside her, a deep vacancy where he had been. She imagined what it would be like to be loved by this man. She felt no less empty.
At one o’clock she woke him. Hoffner roused himself slowly. He had been dreaming, something to do with wild dogs and Georgi. He felt as if he had been running for hours. He dressed quietly and finished off his glass. Lina sat and watched him from the bed; she was relieved that there would be no need for a repeat performance. She held the blanket around her naked shoulders as she brought him to the door.
“You don’t ask any questions about Hans,” she said.
Hoffner half smiled and shook his head. “No.”
She ran her hand along his chest. “That’s good.” She kissed him.
An hour later, Hoffner dropped his pants and shirt at the foot of his bed and crawled in next to Martha; she hardly seemed to breathe. With the scent of Lina still fresh on him, Hoffner placed his arm around Martha’s back and was asleep within minutes. No dreams. Instead, for the first time in weeks, he slept through the night.
On his third time through the notes, Hoffner wrote: “No pleasure or purpose in it; no imperative; kills because he can.” Fichte was on his knees at the foot of the desk, busy with one more stack of papers that he had just pulled from his valise. He had come directly from the train and had been pleasantly surprised to find Hoffner in an almost buoyant mood. There was nothing to apologize for; van Acker had been right: best to get it all here as quickly as possible. Fichte had decided not to question his good fortune. For Hoffner, though, the clear evidence of van Acker’s hand in the choice of documents had been far more important than the speed. As far as he could tell, the Belgian had sent along everything they might need. Unfortunately, it would be another hour before Fichte would have the papers in any kind of presentable order, but at least they were here.
Unwilling to wait, Hoffner had started in on what looked to be the most self-contained and thus coherent of the packets. It was the transcript of van Acker’s first interview with Wouters, dated October 7, 1916, two days after Wouters had been taken into custody. Not surprisingly, it was making for some rather interesting, if disturbing, reading:
REPORT CASE #: 00935
SUSPECT: WOUTERS
INTERROGATOR: ACKERS
7 OCTOBER 1916
CI van Acker: So you killed your grandmother. Anne Wouters.
M. Wouters: Yes.
CI van Acker: Because of the way she treated you.
M. Wouters: Because I had the bristle.
CI van Acker: So you deserved the beatings?
M. Wouters: (Pause) I don’t know. I don’t think so.
CI van Acker: And you were pleased to kill her. As you said, to “watch the blood flow down her neck.”
M. Wouters: (Pause) I don’t think I understand.
CI van Acker: You liked watching her die.
M. Wouters: No. Why should I like watching her die?
CI van Acker: Because she had been beating you. Because of the scars on your back.
M. Wouters: I don’t think so. I don’t know. (Pause) Would it be better if that was why?
CI van Acker: If what was why, Mr. Wouters?
M. Wouters: Would it be better if it was because of the scars on my back? Would that be right?
CI van Acker: (Pause) Are you sorry your grandmother is dead?
M. Wouters: You’re asking the same question again.
CI van Acker: No, I haven’t asked that question.
M. Wouters: Yes. Yes, you did.
CI van Acker: I can assure you, I didn’t.
M. Wouters: Yes. You asked if I was pleased to kill her. “To watch the blood flow down her neck.” You see.
CI van Acker: (Pause) And you buried her outside the city.
M. Wouters: Yes.
CI van Acker: “In the soft earth near the Shripte factory.”
M. Wouters: Yes. The dirt smelled like coal, there.
CI van Acker: Like coal. I see. (Pause) So if there was nothing wrong with what you did, Mr. Wouters, why not tell the police when they asked you about her disappearance?
M. Wouters: Tell them? (Pause) They didn’t find the blood. I cleaned that. With a brush.
Hoffner reread the last line, then sat back and peered across at the map. He continued to think. “Kills because he can.” It was the same conclusion van Acker had drawn two years ago; Hoffner saw no reason to question it now. For Wouters, brutality carried no moral weight, no meaning beyond the act itself. His answers made that abundantly clear: there was no remorse, no pride, no delight in the killing. And yet, strangely enough, Wouters was neither cold nor detached in his responses. Van Acker’s notes said as much. It was as if Wouters had been genuinely confused by van Acker’s horror and disbelief.
CI van Acker: And, after that, you lived on the streets and in the almshouses.
M. Wouters: Yes. I moved about.
CI van Acker: Until the day you decided to kill another woman.
M. Wouters: Yes.
CI van Acker: You waited nine years, and then just went out to kill another woman.
M. Wouters: Yes. Nine. If you say it was nine.
CI van Acker: Nine years, and then three more women.
M. Wouters: Yes. Three more. One, two, three.
CI van Acker: And you decided to carve out these designs on their backs.
M. Wouters: Yes.
CI van Acker: I see. (Pause) Why so long, Mr. Wouters? And why so many at once?
M. Wouters: (Pause) It took time to find the ideal.
CI van Acker: To find the what?
M. Wouters: (Pause) It seemed the right thing to do.
It was that last answer the Belgian doctors had fallen in love with. To them, it had made everything crystal clear. Here was the created madman.
Hoffner was not so convinced. He had never cottoned to the theory that every beaten boy was destined for violence, or that every act of violence was traceable back to a beaten boy. People did what they did because they chose to. The motivations were ultimately irrelevant, inevitability merely an excuse. And yet, even in Berlin, the proceedings at the Reichstadt Court were beginning to sound more like medical seminars than legal prosecutions. In the hands of a clever attorney, the predilections for stealing, maiming, and raping were no longer criminally inspired; instead, they were all symptoms of some hidden disease. That disease, as far as Hoffner could make out, was called childhood. Luckily, most of the judges were, as yet, unwilling to accept the sins of the father as a legitimate defense: they still believed in the culpability of the individual.
Except, of course, when it came to a deeper depravity, that special brand of horror that tore at the very cloth of humane society. Then the judges, whether German or Belgian, were told to step aside so that the doctors could explain away the birth of psychosis. Hoffner imagined that it made them all feel so much safer to think that men such as Wouters could not simply be brought into this world; that, instead, they had to be malformed by it. Hoffner was not sure which painted the world in a more feeble light: the fact that it could not defend itself against a pure evil, or that it alone was responsible for every act of corruption.
Either way, it made no difference. The act itself was all that concerned him. That Wouters had killed Mary Koop-a young Mary Koop-clearly threw the doctors’ theories out the window. Wouters was not reenacting his grandmother’s murder. He was simply weak. And as the weak do, he preyed on the weak. There was nothing more profound to it than that. That he had found most of his victims in older, solitary women; that he had chosen to etch his markings onto the area where he himself had been beaten-naturally there was a link, but those elements could in no way mitigate Wouters’s decision to embrace his own infamy.
What they did provide, however, was a view into the logic of the killings. Wouters might not have had access to the rational world, but that did not mean that he had not constructed one for himself.
A few points were obvious: the drag marks at each of the murder sites made it clear that the placement of the bodies was essential; otherwise, why go to the trouble of bringing them out into the open? Wouters had buried his grandmother in the “soft earth.” He had meant for her to remain hidden. Not so with these women. Hoffner was hoping that van Acker could shed some light on the placement issue with some more information on the three victims he had discovered in Bruges.
More than that, Hoffner was now reasonably certain-ever since the discovery of the gloves-that the diameter-cut design was some kind of lace mesh itself. Wouters’s eight years cooped up in an attic room, working a needle and thread, confirmed it. The trouble was, the more Hoffner stared at the design, the less it seemed to jibe with the pins sticking out from his map. He knew there had to be another piece, something that could make sense of the design in the context of the city’s layout.
“He’s remarkably small,” said Fichte. He was still on his knees, staring at a single sheet. “Just over a meter and a half.” He looked over. “Weren’t some of the women taller than that?”
Hoffner kept his eyes on the map. “All of them.” He was fixated on one of the pins; it had begun to sag. “Tell me,” said Hoffner. “How does he move them, a man that small? How does he move a healthy-sized woman?”
“A trunk. Something like that. Isn’t that what the marks showed?”
Hoffner nodded distractedly as he stood and moved over to the map. “But how does such a little man maneuver a trunk? Up and down stairs? A ramp? A ladder?” Hoffner readjusted the pin. He could still smell the formaldehyde on his fingers from this morning’s session with victim number six. She had been of little help. As of now, they still had no name for her. “How does he do that without drawing attention? In fact”-Hoffner was now straightening each of the pins-“how does he do it at all without breaking his own back?”
Fichte thought for a moment. “The second carver.” Fichte knew he had gotten it right.
Hoffner looked over at him. His eyes widened as he nodded. “Not the way he worked in Bruges, was it?” Fichte shook his head. “You haven’t been at the pins, have you, Hans?” Another shake of the head. Hoffner turned back to the map. “No, I didn’t think so.”
Still preoccupied with the growing piles of paper, Fichte said, “Mueller knows how to have a good time.”
The comment caught Hoffner off-guard. He turned. “Does he?” Fichte’s smile was answer enough. “Yes. . our Toby’s not one to let an opportunity slip by.”
“I never knew a man who could drink that much and still-” Fichte stopped himself with a little laugh.
Hoffner had felt a mild discomfort at Fichte’s arrival this afternoon: another consequence to be considered. Now, hearing of Toby’s exploits, he felt a similarly mild dose of relief. “So you had company?” he said. Fichte looked up. He was sporting a fifteen-year-old’s grin. Hoffner returned the smile. “Toby never disappoints on that score.” For a moment, Hoffner wondered if that was the reason he had sent Fichte off with Mueller in the first place; Hoffner, however, had never considered himself quite that clever, if, in fact, “clever” was the right word.
Fichte began to busy himself with the papers. Trying just too hard at nonchalance, he said, “He was telling me about some of your goings-on.”
“Was he?” said Hoffner coolly.
“He mentioned something about Austria. The Tyrol. ‘The pact,’ he called it.” Fichte looked up eagerly. “He said I should ask you.”
Hoffner let Fichte sit a moment longer before saying, “Nice big tits on your girl, were there, Hans?” Fichte’s face turned a deep crimson. “Toby always likes to give the big-tit girls to his guests. What would your Lina have to say, eh, Hans?”
Hoffner regretted having said it the moment it had passed his lips. Fichte’s sudden look of concern hardly helped: not enough to have taken Fichte’s girl, Hoffner needed to make the boy feel small for letting himself off the hook. Hoffner had forgotten just how much of himself he kept locked away. Now he was seeing how easily it all came back. “I’m just teasing you, Hans,” he said to placate. “You’re young. These things happen. She knows that as well as anyone. And if she doesn’t, well, then-she doesn’t have to.”
Fichte nodded. It was clear that he had been trying to convince himself of the same thing since Bruges. Still, hearing it from Hoffner probably helped.
An unfamiliar boy poked his head through the doorway. Hoffner had no idea how long the boy had been standing there. He quickly stepped over and took the boy out into the hall. He had no interest in allowing a set of little eyes to get a glimpse of the files on the floor. “What is it?” said Hoffner.
The boy was particularly small. “The men are waiting in the Press Room, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
Hoffner had completely forgotten about the meeting he had promised. In fact, he had blocked out the entire morning of interruptions: every paper in town had wanted to know where Kvatsch had gotten his story on the “chisel murders.” Clever little title. Just right for Kvatsch. The telephone had started ringing at nine o’clock and had continued unabated until nearly ten-thirty. Hoffner had told them four o’clock. He checked his watch. For newsmen, they were remarkably prompt.
“I’ll be right down,” he said. The boy headed off, and Hoffner stepped back into the office. “Pack it up, Hans.” He angled his head toward the bit of mirror that was visible through the bookcase. “We’ll need to lock everything in the filing cabinet.” Hoffner ran a hand over his face. His beard was a bit rough. Made him look diligent, he thought. That was all right.
“Pack it up?” said Fichte. “Why? What did the boy want?”
Hoffner checked his teeth. “This should take about twenty minutes.” He smoothed back his hair. “That’s when they usually run out of questions.” He straightened his collar. “Or at least get tired of hearing the same answers.”
“Who? Who gets tired?”
Hoffner pointed to piles on the floor. “The papers, Hans.”
The Press Room was just off the front atrium. Prager had set it up during the last weeks of the war, when the flow of reporters into the Alex had gone from a trickle to a torrent. It had all started when the General Staff-unwilling to admit just how badly things were going-decided, in its infinite wisdom, to cease any further release of information: the less people knew, the better off they were. Newspapermen, however, never saw it that way: they had turned to the Kripo as their only alternative. Not that any of the detectives had known what was going on outside of Berlin, but there was always something nice and official about quotes that cited “Kripo sources.” Naturally, once the revolution kicked in-making for genuine news-the Press Room had become the single most important office in the city. Even the General Staff had been known to send over a junior officer incognito, now and then, for a little information.
It was all very busy and very infuriating, and Prager had reasoned that it was safer to herd the newsmen into a confined space than to have them roaming about the building on their own. The rules were simple: they could come and go as they pleased, as long as they waited patiently in the office for someone to come and get them. More often than not, that wait stretched on for hours. Interest invariably lost out to impatience: the longer they were made to sit, the less frequently they appeared. By all accounts-now that the National Assembly elections had restored a bit of order-the flow had returned to a manageable drip. Then again, the fact that a battle had been waged inside the Alex walls just over a week ago might also have had something to do with it.
Hoffner recognized most of the eleven faces in the room, although the men’s clothes were probably a better indication of which papers had sent them. Those still in long woolen overcoats had come from the likes of the Lokalanzeiger or the Morgenpost or the Volkszeitung, men with no time to waste: people were waiting for their copy. Removing a coat could send the wrong message. They paced defiantly at the back of the room. Others had been sent by the 8-Uhr Abendblatt or the Nacht-Ausgabe, Mosse’s and Sherl’s knockoffs of the BZ. For years the two papers had been trying to compete with Ullstein’s gold mine, but neither had ever won the kind of following that the BZ continued to enjoy. The wrinkled suits and brown socks of these staff writers were proof enough of their second-class status. Sadly, these were men who were always getting scooped by Gottlob Kvatsch. For them, an appearance at the Alex was a kind of humiliation: they had missed it again. They stood off to the side, careful not to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. The final group was made up of men who looked more like stockbrokers than journalists. They were all very well put together-creases and all-and worked for papers such as the Vossische Zeitung or the Berliner Tageblatt. These were men who reported to the cultural elite, to the Westend highbrows. They sat aloof in the few chairs that were scattered about the room. Chances were, they would see the story for what it was: a bit of tabloid fodder. That, however, would not stop them from publishing it.
“Gentlemen,” said Hoffner as he continued to the rostrum at the front of the room. Those who were sitting stood. The rest bunched up across from him. “I’m Detective Inspector Hoffner-two effs. I understand you have questions about an article that appeared in this morning’s BZ.”
For exactly twenty-two minutes the men asked and Hoffner answered. Fichte stood at the back of the room, marveling at the effortlessness with which Hoffner deflected even the most detailed of questions. It was clear that his Kriminal-Kommissar understood the essential rule of the press conference: that journalists in crowds are never as effective as when alone, probably another reason why Prager had set up the room in the first place. In this game of cat and mouse, each of the men had to be careful not to ask anything too leading lest one of his rivals learn more from the question than from the answer. Hoffner was playing them off each other to perfection. They learned that there were victims-four or five, the number was unclear just yet. That there was knife work-again, there was too little of it to make it a signature piece of the case. And that, thus far, the victims were women-old, young, there was nothing to specify at this point.
Frustrated by the vagueness of the answers, one of the woolen overcoats finally broke down and asked about the locations of the murder sites. He had heard that the women were being killed in one place before being brought to the various sites. Was there any truth to that?
Hoffner had anticipated the question. He was about to answer when a single “Yes” came from the doorway. Everyone, including Hoffner, turned to see Oberkommissar Braun enter the room.
“That is, in fact, true,” continued Braun as he moved to Hoffner at the rostrum.
Hoffner did everything he could to keep from biting through his tongue. He sensed an immediate shift in the level of interest in the room. Nonetheless, he turned back to the men as if he had been expecting Braun all along. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is Chief Inspector Braun. He is also involved with the case.” Hoffner looked at Braun. “So glad you could take the time out for us, Chief Inspector.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hoffner noticed that Fichte had been joined by Kommissar Walther Hermannsohn.
Braun said, “The Polpo always has time for the truth, Herr Inspector.”
A second bombshell landed as the men’s interest gave way to tension. None of them had considered the possibility of Polpo involvement. Braun was working his magic.
The frustrated overcoat decided to push his luck: “The Polpo?” he said. “Are we to take it, then, that this is a political case, Herr Chief Inspector?”
Braun offered a cold smile. “In the aftermath of revolution, everything has a political side, mein Herr.” To a man, the pens started moving briskly across the pads. Braun continued, “One can never be too careful, especially with a maniac on the loose.”
The pens stopped. No one had mentioned the word “maniac.” Even Kvatsch had managed to keep it to just this side of lurid.
“You say a maniac,” piped in one of the stockbrokers, all traces of indifference now gone. “Can we assume he has designs on the entire city?”
Hoffner cut in quickly: “As of now, everything is localized. Let me say, gentlemen, that there has still been no clear evidence of any transporting of victims, despite any information the Chief Inspector might, or might not, have seen.” Hoffner lied, but he needed to do something to muddy Braun’s performance.
The stockbroker continued, “But there is at least one occurrence of a victim being moved to a separate site? Is that true, Inspector?”
Hoffner waited for Braun to step in, but Braun said nothing: like the men in the room, he looked to Hoffner. “One case,” said Hoffner coolly. The lie was taking on a life of its own. “But there’s nothing to indicate a pattern.”
“Does that mean that that killing could have taken place anywhere?” the stockbroker pressed.
“As I said,” answered Hoffner, “everything is localized.” And with just a hint of contempt, he added, “No need to worry, mein Herr. Your readers in the west are safe.”
The man was not satisfied. “Is that a promise, Herr Inspector?”
Hoffner was getting tired of this. He was also unsure how much longer he could stand next to the conveniently quiet Oberkommissar Braun without driving something sharp into the man’s chest. “He’ll be in our custody long before he figures out what’s beyond the Tiergarten.”
“And for those of us in the east,” cut in one of the brown socks, “it wasn’t so pressing?” The man had a point. “A maniac in Charlottenburg is reason to step things up, but a killer in the Mitte district was acceptable? Are our readers less important to the Kripo, Herr Inspector?”
Hoffner sensed how much Braun was enjoying this. “Of course not.” Hoffner knew he had to end this, now. “We’re in the process of following several very positive leads that should have this man off the streets before he has a chance to do any more harm, in any district of the city.”
A man at the back spoke up. Hoffner had not seen him until now. His clothes were out of keeping with the rest of the group. “And is the Polpo as certain as the Kripo about these leads?” the man asked. The question was transparent. It was the surest way to challenge Hoffner’s sincerity.
Hoffner gazed at the man. He made sure to remember the face.
“This,” said Braun, suddenly eager to chime in, “is a Kripo investigation.” It was as if he had been waiting for the question. “I can’t comment on any specific leads. But let me say that, while the Polpo has kept itself apprised of all criminal cases since the revolution, it is our policy never to interfere with an ongoing Kripo investigation. The Polpo has the greatest confidence in Inspector Hoffner and the entire Kripo staff to follow whatever leads it may or may not have, so as to bring this unfortunate and unpleasant business to a swift conclusion. Only if it should prove to be more than a criminal case would the Polpo then step in.”
Hoffner was impressed. In a matter of two minutes, Braun had managed to disclose crucial and damning elements of the case, foster panic, and undermine Hoffner’s credibility, and all while distancing himself and the Polpo from any kind of connection to the case. It had been masterful, and clearly orchestrated. Hoffner had no choice but to thank him for it.
“Always good to hear, Chief Inspector,” said Hoffner. He turned to the room. “And I believe, gentlemen, that’s all we have for you at this time.” Hoffner motioned for Braun to lead them out; Braun acquiesced. There was a flurry of questions, but Hoffner ignored them. From the back of the room, he saw Hermannsohn follow Fichte to the door.
“Prick” was the first word out of Hoffner’s mouth as he and Fichte stepped back into his office.
Hoffner had refused to give Braun the satisfaction of a confrontation. He had thanked him again for his words of confidence, and had then headed upstairs. Fichte had been smart to say nothing.
“And how he enjoys it,” Hoffner continued. He moved over to the filing cabinet. He stared at it, his mind elsewhere. “There are things going on here I’m just not seeing.” He unlocked and opened the drawer. “I’m getting tired of that, Hans.”
Fichte closed the door. “Then I suppose we have no choice but to look at what we do see.”
A week ago, Hoffner would have taken Fichte’s contribution as little more than a parroting of what he had heard. Now the boy was actually speaking sense: not wanting to impress, Fichte was focusing.
Hoffner had the first of the papers in his hand. “Everything in here deals with what was happening at Sint-Walburga after Wouters went missing, yes? Logs, doctors’ reports, visitors?”
“Primarily.”
“Nothing about his behavior immediately after the arrest, or about his first few months in the asylum?” Fichte shook his head. “Which means reading through them won’t help us understand him any better than we already do.”
“Well, no,” said Fichte, unwilling to concede the point entirely. “We took them because we thought they’d lead us to whoever planned the escape.”
“I’m not questioning why you took them, Hans. I’m just making sure I know what we have. Finding the people who helped him only matters once we’ve got Wouters in hand.”
Fichte thought a moment and nodded. He was about to answer, when his eyes lit up. “There was something else,” he said as he moved to the cabinet and began to rummage through the papers. “Van Acker mentioned a few things he’d put together himself-interviews, a few last year, two or three the year before, and some drawings.” Fichte found the packet. “Here it is.”
“Drawings,” said Hoffner. He took the packet, placed it on the desk, and began to leaf through as Fichte drew up to his side. “When it’s a case that revolves around designs and patterns, Hans, you might want to mention drawings a little earlier on.” Hoffner stopped when they came to the sheets with Wouters’s scribblings.
There were four pages, each one filled with perhaps twenty lines of intricately drawn lace patterns. The sketches were all the same size, but what was most striking was the patterning of the rows themselves. Each one was made up of seven drawings of exactly the same design; the next row, another design and another set of replicas. Had Hoffner simply been glancing at them, he might have thought that each line was an exercise in perfecting the single designs. He quickly realized, however, that with each subsequent rendering, Wouters was bringing something new to the original drawing. The shapes, the lines, the contours might have been identical, but Hoffner knew there was something different in each one. He stood over the pages and stared, trying to find it, until, almost twenty minutes in, he saw the deviation. It was in the stroke of the pen. Each replica began at a different point of the design and moved through the lines of the pattern on its own distinct course: identical sketches, yet each one uniquely drawn. He had no idea what it meant.
“It’s in how he draws it,” he said out loud as he began to flip through the pages. He was hoping to find something resembling the diameter-cut. There was nothing.
The sudden break in silence momentarily startled Fichte. “An exercise, you mean?”
“Maybe.” Hoffner stared a moment longer. “I don’t know.” He then took the pages and grabbed his coat. “Friday night,” he said as he slipped his arm through the sleeve. “The only place that handles this kind of lace and that stays open past six is KaDeWe, yes?”
“The shops I tried wouldn’t be open this late,” said Fichte. “KaDeWe. Maybe Tietz. But KaDeWe definitely.”
“Good,” said Hoffner as he grabbed his hat. “Then I’m guessing our friend there is going to be able to tell us more about Herr Wouters than you, I, van Acker, or any doctor ever could.”
KaDeWe was packed. The revolution was now a distant memory, and capitalism had wasted no time in calling its faithful back to the teat. If any of the store’s clientele had seen this morning’s BZ, they were showing little concern. After all, there was a special on scarves, and someone had heard that a bit of perfume from Paris had finally made its way through. They were in the west, deep in the west. No one killed in the west.
Hoffner and Fichte sidestepped their way through the crowds and over to the glove counter, where, for some reason, things were less frantic. A placard on top of the glass explained:
We regret any inconvenience, however this department will be closing at five-thirty this evening. All inquiries may be taken up at the information desk. Thank you for your patience.
Hoffner checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. He moved across the aisle to lady’s handkerchiefs, where a line of three or four women was waiting for the clerk. Hoffner stepped up to the glass. “The gentleman who handles the gloves,” he said bluntly. “Herr Taubmann. Where does he change before leaving the store?”
The clerk turned slowly at the interruption as the woman started talking quietly among themselves. “Mein Herr,” he said through two stiff lips, “as you can see, there are other customers waiting-”
Hoffner pulled out his badge; he had no time for this tonight. “My apologies. Where can I find him?”
The man’s sneer became a weak smile. “Is there something the matter, mein Herr?” The man was doing his best not to rattle the ladies. “Surely this is a mistake?”
“Yes, that’s what this is,” said Hoffner abruptly. “A mistake. Just tell me where he changes.”
Three minutes later, Hoffner was leading Fichte through the maze of underground employee corridors in search of Room 17. It was eerily quiet, given the mayhem they had just come from on the main floor.
Herr Taubmann was sitting alone on a long bench, tying his shoe, when Hoffner and Fichte stepped into the cold room; evidently heat was not a necessity for KaDeWe’s workers. Hoffner noticed that the walls were in need of a bit of replastering, as well.
Taubmann’s suit hung in a locker directly across from him. It was perfectly placed, the creases exact on the hanger. Hoffner saw the open bottle of rosewater placed on a shelf just below the cuffs to keep it fresh: a perfect touch for the man, he thought.
Taubmann looked up, his surprise instantaneous. It was the first time Hoffner had realized how birdlike Taubmann was. “Herr Hoffner,” Taubmann said nervously. His head tweaked from side to side as he glanced from Hoffner to Fichte. “This is a restricted area.” He seemed unsure what to say next. “Your order has not yet come in.” Even Taubmann recognized the absurdity of what he had just said.
“Yes,” Hoffner cut in reassuringly. “I’m not here about the gloves, Herr Taubmann.” He calmly produced his badge. “It’s Inspector Hoffner. I just need to ask you some questions about. . lace designs.”
Taubmann was still trying to process the badge. “Inspector?”
“Yes. You’ve been so helpful in the past. I hope that’s all right?”
Taubmann struggled to find an answer. “Questions about lace?”
“Yes.” Hoffner needed to move this along. “I know you have an appointment tonight, but this shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
Taubmann’s nervousness turned to shock. “How do you know about my appointment?” he said tensely.
Hoffner raised a hand. “I don’t,” he said in his most pacifying tone. “I merely assumed. There was a note at your counter. You were closing early.”
Taubmann’s relief was immediate. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. The note. I–It’s a dinner for my mother. Once a year. We celebrate her birthday. I always leave a few minutes early. Saves an enormous amount of time back here. You can’t imagine. Half an hour at least.”
It amused Hoffner to see how much information the innocent were willing to volunteer. “Of course,” he said. “How nice for you. But could I steal just a few minutes of your time?”
Taubmann was again running through the last half-minute in his head. “You still want the gloves from Bruges, yes?” The salesman was returning.
Hoffner smiled. “Of course.”
“Good.” Taubmann was recovering beautifully. “That’s good. And this is. .?”
Hoffner turned to Fichte. “My partner. Detective Fichte. Herr Taubmann.”
Fichte offered a quick nod.
“Oh, yes,” said Taubmann. “I trust your doctor’s visit was a success?”
Naturally, Taubmann would have remembered that. Fichte nodded again, with a forced smile.
“Very good,” said Taubmann. He was slightly less efficient out of his perfect suit. He seemed aware of it himself as he motioned for Hoffner to take a seat. Hoffner did so, and pulled out the pages from van Acker’s files.
“If you can,” said Hoffner, “I’d like to know what these are.”
Still not sure what was going on, Taubmann took the sheets. “All right,” he said tentatively. He brought the pages up to his face. As with the gloves, his expression changed instantly. His head began to dart from row to row as he studied the sketches with great intensity. After nearly two minutes he said, “This is marvelous work. Really. Not another aunt, is it, mein Herr?”
“Another. .?” Hoffner remembered his first lie. “No. Not another aunt.”
Taubmann nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sketches. “No, I wouldn’t imagine something this unusual as a gift.”
“Unusual?” said Hoffner.
Taubmann looked up. “A point tude. It’s exceptionally rare. It applies to only a handful of meshes.”
“I see,” said Hoffner.
Gazing at the drawings again, Taubmann said, “Am I right in guessing that you want to know if we can make pieces from them?”
Hoffner found it oddly charming how everything for Herr Taubmann revolved around the sale of lace. A detective had just invaded his changing room, with mysterious sheets of paper, and all Taubmann saw was an order for unusual gloves. The man was perfect. Hoffner could ask him anything without wondering if Taubmann might see beyond the question. It made it all very safe.
“Once again,” said Hoffner, “you’ve guessed correctly.”
Taubmann’s smile was only slightly self-congratulatory. “Thank you, mein Herr, but I’m not quite clear why it’s so. . pressing.” He was doing his best to be accommodating. “After all, I will be in tomorrow morning.”
“Yes.”
“Not that I’m not keen on the sale,” Taubmann said eagerly. “But. . you understand.”
“Of course,” said Hoffner, easing himself back into character. “It’s just that I came across it-this. . point tude, as you say-quite by accident, and I’m simply fascinated by it.” Hoffner decided to lead the man. “Much the way you are, I suspect?” He saw Taubmann begin to waver. “Just two minutes, Herr Taubmann. You’ll allow me that brief imposition, won’t you?”
Taubmann stared uncertainly until, with a long exhalation, he nodded.
“Wonderful,” said Hoffner. “Is it some kind of blueprint for different meshes?”
“Some kind of-oh, I see what you mean. Well, yes and no. I suppose one could call them blueprints, but they’re more variations on each design.”
“Variations?” Hoffner had figured that out for himself back at the Alex. “But each row looks identical. I thought it might be some sort of exercise?”
Taubmann’s smile returned. “To the untrained eye, perhaps, mein Herr. But a point tude is not meant for the untrained eye. It comes from the French. ‘Point study.’ Of course, the term is inaccurate. A better way to describe it would be ‘flow study,’ or perhaps ‘path study.’ Even those don’t capture the art one finds in these.”
Hoffner had been right. It was the way in which Wouters had drawn them that differentiated each sketch. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Taubmann invited Hoffner to bend over the page more closely. “Identical in design, yes, but not in the way they are drawn.” Taubmann leaned in to illustrate as he spoke. “Each of these drawings begins at a different point on the mesh. The needle, or in this case the pen, then follows the path of the design using very specific directional markers that tell the artist when to loop back, when to bring the thread under or over, so forth and so on. Those shifts in movement occur at the picots, or knots, throughout the design.” Taubmann sat up. “The point of origin determines the movement of the needle throughout the entire mesh. Change the point of origin, and the design-even though seemingly identical-is nonetheless subtly and significantly altered.”
Hoffner nodded. He had been listening with only half an ear since Taubmann had mentioned the words “directional markers.” It suddenly struck him how close he had been to unmasking the design, all along. He had always understood it best through movement, in the ebb and flow of the city, and here it was, that very movement reflected in the twists and turns of the needle. It was not enough to take the little pins in his map and search for the pattern. One had to understand the flow of the design. That was the key to the placement.
More than that, the design itself told the “artist” where to go, which meant that the design, in some way, knew where its next crucial change in direction would be. In other words, all Hoffner needed to do was to find the point of origin for the diameter-cut design, and he would be able to follow its flow to Wouters’s next dumping site. At least that was the theory.
“So, if you have the point of origin,” said Hoffner, “you know which direction the needle will always move, and which major knots along the way it will hit.”
“Precisely,” said Taubmann. He was now enjoying himself. “But it gets even better. Most lacemakers believe that these kinds of rare designs also have an optimal point of origin-that is, a singular point of entry that will create the ideal mesh.” Taubmann once again had Hoffner’s full attention. “That’s why there are so many versions of the same design in each row. The artist is looking for the ideal mesh. Or, rather, he is waiting for the ideal mesh to reveal itself. In a way, the point tude turns a mesh into a living, breathing thing, with the key to its own perfection hidden within it. Remarkable, wouldn’t you say? That’s why they spend so much time on these points tudes. Or at least why they used to. These days, machines churn out the designs with no care for optimal mesh. Shame, really.”
An ideal mesh, thought Hoffner. Living and breathing. Of course. He remembered van Acker’s first interview with Wouters: It took time to find the ideal. It was perfect. In Wouters’s twisted mind, the diameter-cut-originated at its optimal point-was actually breathing life into his victims.
Taubmann picked up the pages. “In this particular study, the artist achieves the ideal mesh always on the seventh sketch. That’s a bit odd, I suppose, but it does make for a very nice symmetry.” He extended one of the pages to Hoffner. “I’m sure you can see the difference in the last ones in each of the rows. They’re slightly more-well, perfect.”
“Yes,” said Hoffner, not really looking. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another single sheet. He held it out to Taubmann. It was Hoffner’s rendering of the diameter-cut design. “And is this one of these rare designs?”
Taubmann hesitated. It was clear from his expression that he was done with the lesson.
“Please, Herr Taubmann,” Hoffner said kindly. “This is the last, I promise.”
Taubmann stared a moment longer, then took the page. His brow furrowed as he studied it. “It’s very rudimentary. You’re sure this is a lace design?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Herr Taubmann.”
Taubmann continued to scan the page as he spoke: “It might be.” He suddenly looked up. “This isn’t about buying lace, is it, Herr Inspector?”
Taubmann’s frankness was wholly unexpected. Hoffner had never understood why people asked such questions. Surely they knew there could be no answers. “The drawing, Herr Taubmann. Is it one of these designs?”
Taubmann’s discomfort grew. “I’m not really an expert, Herr Inspector.”
“You’re being modest.”
“No,” said Taubmann more forcefully. “I’m really not.”
Hoffner saw the uneasiness in Taubmann’s eyes. This was not something he readily admitted. “Then who is?” asked Hoffner.
The answer came without hesitation. “Emil Kepner. He’s the best in the city. In fact, I’m studying with him.” Taubmann did his best with a smile. “You see, I hope to have my own shop one day. When I’ve put enough money away.”
“Where can I find this Kepner?”
Fichte answered: “Kleiststrasse.” Both men turned to him. Fichte explained: “He owns one of the places I tried last week. Very high-end.”
Hoffner turned to Taubmann. “So Herr Kepner would know about my drawing?”
“Absolutely,” said Taubmann. “No one in Berlin knows lace like Emil.”
“You have the address?”
“He’ll be home, by now, mein Herr.” Again, Taubmann tried a smile. “You can see why I want my own shop.”
Hoffner was growing impatient. “Then his address there. You have that?”
Taubmann’s confusion returned. “It’s Friday evening, mein Herr. It’s the man’s home.”
“I’m aware of that, Herr Taubmann.” Hoffner was no longer the genial customer. “I’m also a Kripo detective. Do you have the address?”
Taubmann’s face paled. Six minutes later, Hoffner and Fichte were outside, heading for Charlottenburg.
The street names are what give everything away: Goethe, Schiller, Herder, Kant. If the brighter glow from the lampposts, or the whiter shine on the pavements, fails to tip off an errant wanderer that he has strayed too far, then the signs above are a final warning to turn back, now. Charlottenburg had never been satisfied merely to hold tightly to the city’s purse strings; it had to stake a claim to her genius, as well. The fact that Goethe and Herder had spent most of their productive years in Weimar, Schiller in Jena and then Weimar, and Kant forever in Knigsberg, had never deterred the privileged few from assuming their rightful lineage. Hoffner and Fichte were now in the land of the divine. They were meant to tread carefully.
Among friends, Herr Kepner was always heard to say that he lived in Weimar: after all, his house was on the corner where Schiller and Herder met. Very few ever got the joke, but they laughed anyway. Kepner was that sort of man: always a few steps ahead, but on a road no one else seemed all that eager to follow.
It was a road, however, that had served him well. Kepner’s house was three stories high, set off from the street, and with a pleasant garden out front. Aside from the Tiergarten, Hoffner had forgotten the last time he had seen this much grass in one place. He released the latch on the fence and followed the path of stones to the front porch. Fichte followed behind. Hoffner knocked at the door.
After several more attempts, the door finally opened and a man, younger than Hoffner had expected, stepped from the shadows. It was unusually dark inside the house; even so, Hoffner could tell that the man was not in a servant’s uniform. The man seemed puzzled by the appearance of someone on his stoop.
“Yes?” he said warily.
“Forgive the intrusion, mein Herr. I am Detective Inspector Hoffner, with the Kripo. I’m looking for Herr Emil Kepner.”
The man grew more reticent. He looked over at Fichte, then back at Hoffner. “I am Herr Kepner’s son-in-law, Herr Brenner. Can I help you?”
“Ah,” said Hoffner. “Herr Brenner. Is Herr Kepner available?”
Brenner spoke as if to a child. “It’s Friday night, mein Herr.”
“Yes. Again, I apologize, but this is Kripo business. Herr Kepner will, I’m sure, understand.”
The man seemed to take offense at the suggestion. Hoffner was about to start in again, when a man’s voice called out from behind Brenner: “Is something the matter, Josef? Just tell them we are not seeing anyone tonight.”
Brenner turned back to the voice. “I have. It’s an inspector from the Kripo.”
There was a rustling of chairs and a low rumble of voices. Brenner moved out of the way as a man, perhaps in his early sixties, stepped through to the doorway. He was agitated. “Herr Inspector. Has something happened with the shop?” Brenner remained just behind him.
“Herr Kepner?” said Hoffner.
“Yes.” Kepner was small, but well fed. “Has something happened?”
“Nothing to do with your shop, mein Herr, but if I might have a word with you inside?”
For a moment Kepner seemed torn by the simple request. Hoffner was losing his patience: were the burghers of Charlottenburg beyond the sway of a Kripo badge? Finally Kepner nodded. He extended a hand and welcomed the two men into the house. “This way, gentlemen, please.” He led them along a hallway. A few paces on, he turned to his right, through an arch, and into a sitting room. Hoffner was following when he glanced to his left. Directly across the way was a second arch which led into the dining room. A table was set, with perhaps ten people seated around it. Each of the faces stared back blankly at him. Hoffner noticed the two candelabra standing on the sideboard. He saw the skullcaps on each of the men’s heads. He turned to Fichte. “Wait here, Hans.”
Fichte did as he was told. Brenner remained with him.
Kepner was by the fireplace when Hoffner stepped into the sitting room. “Another apology, mein Herr,” said Hoffner. “The Sabbath. I didn’t think to ask.”
Kepner nodded curtly. “Yes.” He motioned to two chairs. “Please.” The men sat. “You will understand, then, if I wish to keep this as brief as possible.” Hoffner nodded. “So what is it that I can do for the Kriminalpolizei, Herr Inspector?”
Hoffner felt foolish now asking about the lace. He had been looking forward to interrupting a nice Charlottenburg dinner party with his request-the rich needed to be kept on their toes-but this was something entirely different. Police and Jews were never a good mix. Jews saw only the threat, never the protection. Sadly, they probably had little reason to see it any other way. The irony of his career choice had never been lost on Hoffner.
He chose candor out of some skewed sense of penance for having reminded the man’s family of just how tenuous its position remained. “We’re in the midst of an investigation, mein Herr,” he began. “We believe you may be able to shed some light on a piece of evidence we’ve recently uncovered.”
“How did you get my name?” Kepner was being cautious.
“A clerk at KaDeWe.”
Kepner nodded knowingly. “Taubmann.”
“He was explaining the point tude when your name came up.” Hoffner saw the slight lift in Kepner’s eyes. “I have a rendering of a single design which I’m hoping you’ll examine.”
“A point tude. You know how rare these things are?”
“Yes.”
“And I shouldn’t ask why this is important, should I?”
“No, mein Herr. You shouldn’t.”
Again, Kepner took a moment. A Jew this old knew to leave it at that. “I can look at this for you, now,” he said. “But I can’t work on it for you. You understand.” Hoffner shook his head. “Not until after sundown tomorrow.”
For the second time in the last few minutes, Hoffner felt foolish. He was smarter than that. Of course not until after sundown. He hated appearing the amateur. He said, “I’ll need your word that this evidence will remain in your possession at all times. That you will tell no one about it. That you will show it to no one.”
Kepner remained stone-faced. “You don’t need my word, Herr Inspector. You see how I live.”
Hoffner felt another twinge of conscience; this time, however, he was unsure if it was because he should have known better, or because he knew only too well. Did Kepner actually believe that his place was so secured that his life could speak for itself? Could a Jew grow that comfortable in Berlin? Hoffner had no answer. He reached into his coat pocket and produced Wouters’s design. Kepner pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and took the page. He began to examine it. His expression remained unchanged.
“Crude,” said Kepner. “But yes. This is a design for a point tude.” He removed the glasses. “I can’t tell you which specific design it is. I will need more time for that.” He folded the page and placed it in his jacket pocket. “But you knew as much before coming to me.”
“I was hoping.”
“Yes,” said Kepner guardedly. “I don’t suspect that your hopes are ever that far off, Herr Inspector.” Hoffner said nothing as Kepner studied him. “A Kripoman who apologizes for intruding on a Sabbath dinner. Now, that’s a rarity, isn’t it?” Kepner was not expecting an answer as he began to get to his feet. “I will do what I can for you, Herr Inspector. You will give me a telephone number, and we will talk tomorrow.” The two men stood.
A minute later, Hoffner was at the door with Fichte. Brenner had moved them on as quickly as he could. He watched them all the way down the stone path.
Out on the street, Fichte was the first to break the silence. “Bit of a cold fish, don’t you think, that Brenner? I suppose Kepner was the same?”
“No,” said Hoffner. “He wasn’t.”
“Oh.” Fichte seemed disappointed by the response. “Took me through the whole thing, Brenner did. I’d never heard about a Jewish ritual before.”
Hoffner continued to walk. “It’s just a meal, Hans.”
“The servants turning the lights on and off for them. And all done in Jewish-”
“Hebrew,” Hoffner corrected. “They speak in Hebrew.”
“Right.” Too pleased with himself, Fichte continued, “I’ll tell you, he was surprised I had so many questions.”
Hoffner said blandly, “Or maybe he was just surprised that you needed to ask them.”
The subtlety was lost on Fichte. He asked, “Did the old Jew have what we wanted?”
Hoffner found himself slowing. He stopped and stood there, deciding whether he wanted to take Fichte down this road. Fichte had stopped, as well. Not exactly sure why, Hoffner turned to him and said, “Herr Kepner has offered to bring his expertise to our case, Hans.” He spoke with no emotion. “What have you brought to it, so far?”
The sting of the comment took a moment to register. When it did, Fichte’s surprise quickly gave way to a look of injured pride. “I don’t know,” he said icily. “I suppose nothing at all, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
Hoffner had no interest in stroking Fichte’s ego. He started to walk. “Don’t overstate it, Hans.”
Fichte was at a complete loss. He had no idea what had just gone so terribly wrong. He caught up and pretended as if nothing had happened; it was the best he could come up with. “Did Herr Kepner think he could help us?”
“We’ll know by tomorrow,” said Hoffner. They reached a cab stand and stopped. “You want me to drop you somewhere?” It was a hollow offer.
“We’re done for the night?”
Hoffner had spent the better part of the morning digging up what he could on Leo Jogiches-his possible K-but it had all been preliminary. He now considered taking another crack at the man, but he was tired. He needed a night away from all of this. “I am,” he said. “You’re welcome to head back to the Alex, run through the files by yourself, Hans, but that’s up to you.”
“You’re sure?” Fichte was still trying to wrap his mind around the last few minutes.
Hoffner explained. “There’s nothing we can do until we hear from Kepner. That’s it.” And with an unkind finality, he added, “I’m sure you can fill the time with your Lina.”
Fichte had reached the limits of his confusion. “Look,” he said, trying to make things right, “I’m sorry if I offended you-”
“Offended me?” Hoffner cut in. “You didn’t offend me, Hans.” Not true, but not the point. “You just have to be smarter than that, that’s all.” Hoffner decided to make this very simple. “You want to think that way, go right ahead. Not my business. What is, is how you look at a case, and in a case, that kind of thinking only gets in the way. You don’t see what you need to see. You see only what you already believe, and that helps no one. In another line of work, it wouldn’t matter. But to do what we do-at least to do it well-you can’t narrow the scope. Any kind of preconception, no matter how innocent you may think it is, muddies the view. Yes, Kepner is an old Jew, but that’s not what he is to us.”
Hoffner almost believed what he had said. A detective’s cold rationale had always been his best defense for an open mind. He knew it went deeper than that, but neither he nor Fichte could afford to dig that far. Moral indignation had never been Hoffner’s strong suit.
Fichte waited before answering. “Yes,” he said: something had struck a chord. “I appreciate the advice. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Hoffner heard the sincerity in the boy’s voice. Maybe he had said too much. “Go see your Lina, Hans. Take the day. Be at the Alex by three.”
Things were all right again. Fichte nodded and then turned and headed down the street. If he was lucky, he would be on Friedrichstrasse by half past eight: he would have an entire evening with her.
Hoffner called over a cab. He imagined Hans in Lina’s arms as he stepped inside. Another act of contrition. Hoffner was becoming quite adept at them.
Sascha had been sulking for the last hour. There had been the promise of an outing with friends after school-someone had mentioned horseback riding in the Tiergarten-but Martha had insisted he be home for lunch with her sisters: another Saturday afternoon with the spinsters. Sascha had never understood why he had to be punished for their failures; his father had always wondered the same thing. So, in their last hour of freedom, father and son had snuck out to the kiosk on the corner, Hoffner to assess the damage Herr Braun had wrought, Sascha to check on yesterday’s rally results.
The Tageblatt had set the tone. Pasted across its front page, alongside a photograph of the American President-triumphant before an adoring Paris crowd-was an artist’s rendering of Berlin’s latest “chisel murder” victim. At least the editors there had had the decency to keep her relatively well clothed; Mr. Wilson was, after all, a modest man. The Lokalanzeiger, on the other hand, had offered her up with a bare back and a bit of thigh showing. Obviously, Ullstein was hedging its bets: if horror failed, then perhaps titillation would move the papers off the stands.
Naturally, the one name that had appeared over and over throughout each of the articles was that of Detective Inspector Nikolai Hoffner. Herr Braun, no surprise, had managed to maintain the elusive title of “Polpo source.” Hoffner was glad to see Sascha too busy with his results to take any notice.
A second item-lower down on the page-had also caught Hoffner’s eye. They were burying Karl Liebknecht today at the Friedrichsfelde cemetery. An empty coffin for Rosa was to be buried by his side. Hoffner could only imagine the throngs that would be following behind: the papers were estimating crowds in the thousands. Such was Rosa’s continuing hold on Berlin: even absent from her own funeral, she was the day’s central attraction.
A week ago, Hoffner would have given the article only a glance. Now there was a human side to it, with poetry and self-doubt and loneliness and a parasol, and somehow Hoffner felt as if these were his alone. Even so, he knew there was something safe in indulging the personal with a woman alive only on paper. He would have to be more careful elsewhere.
Back at the flat, Martha’s sisters showed no signs that they had seen any of the articles. The size of their appetites, along with the vacuousness of their conversation, told Hoffner as much.
“Fascinating,” he said, as he helped himself to another serving of cold potatoes. Martha had saved up a good bit of the cream from the week; the potatoes stuck to one another like clumps of packed snow. It was his favorite dish.
Gisella, Martha’s eldest sister, nodded. She was large and square, and wore wool even in the summer-the result, Hoffner guessed, of sixteen years confined to a secretary’s desk in a lawyer’s office. “It’s going to be a busy time once this new government starts changing the law books,” she said. “I can tell you that.”
Georgi kept a toy plane by his plate. It was reserved for emergencies only. He picked it up and took it out for a short flight under the tablecloth. His other aunt, Eva, watched him with delight. She was not so large, and very soft. A nurse in a dentist’s surgery, she had impeccably white teeth. As a little boy, Georgi had been frightened by her smile.
“Look how graceful he is,” said Eva as she beamed.
“Up on the table,” said Martha quietly. Georgi brought the plane up for a final approach, and then landed it by his plate. He smiled at Eva.
“I hear this new government might not last,” said Sascha, who was seated by his father. The boy was brazen enough to say it, though not yet sure enough of himself to look up from his plate when he did.
“That’s quite a statement,” said Gisella. Her entire torso shook when she laughed. “Do we have a young politico in the family?”
“Sascha has no taste for the socialists,” said Hoffner. He licked at his spoon. “Even the democratic kind.”
Gisella tilted her square head at the boy. “You could do a lot worse, Alexander.” Like all good aunts, she never forgot what he liked to be called. “It’s an exciting time to be young.”
Sascha nodded quietly. He felt the starch in his collar grate against his neck.
The conversation might have droned on and on-with a few more test flights before dessert-had the telephone not interrupted: Sascha and Georgi perked up; Martha looked to Nikolai for guidance; Gisella and Eva simply looked confused.
Hoffner stood. “I’m expecting a call,” he said. “About a case.” This managed to settle the table. Of course, the call was meant for after sundown-and back at the Alex-but maybe Herr Kepner had grown impatient, so impatient that he had tracked down the telephone number to the flat. Points tudes were rare things, after all. Hoffner excused himself and moved through to the living room.
“Hoffner here,” he said when he picked up.
Sadly, Kepner had not been so resourceful: it was the duty sergeant at the Alex. The man apologized for the intrusion. They had found another body, number seven, this one just west of the Tiergarten. Hoffner listened to the details, then hung up.
The zoo, he thought. Over five kilometers from any of the other murder sites. And just a day after Herr Braun’s press briefing. How convenient.
Hoffner considered phoning Fichte, but knew that would be pointless. A call to Lina’s would be equally ill-advised. He was about to start back to the dining room when he saw Sascha standing in the doorway.
“Yes?” said Hoffner.
“Mother wants to know if everything’s all right.”
Hoffner could see the total indifference in the boy’s eyes. “I need to go out to the Tiergarten,” he said. Sascha nodded and started to go. “You can come with me, if you want.” Hoffner momentarily allowed himself to forget what it was that he was going to see out at the zoo. The boy turned back. He said nothing. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer locking horns with Auntie Gee all afternoon?” Hoffner thought he saw the hint of a smile. Sascha, however, managed to keep it in check.
“All right,” said the boy.
“Good. Get our coats. I’ll tell your mother.”
The first streetcar took them out west, the second up north. It was a pleasant little ride, the pockmarks of Kreuzberg-those nice thick chips gouged out by stray bullets-giving way to the smooth porcelain-white complexion of affluent Berlin. Even the advertising posters here loomed more gently: docile pinks and yellows infused the tight skirts of the ladies’ dresses and men’s handkerchiefs. There was a joy in the painted faces that belonged only in the west.
Sascha peered out with contempt. “They got by without so much as a scratch, didn’t they?”
Hoffner hardly noticed; he had been watching Sascha for the last half hour. The boy’s gaze reminded him of another face, smaller, pressed closer in to the tram window, those distant Sundays when father and son had headed up to Potsdamer or Alexanderplatz to choose a line-a new one each time-before settling in for an afternoon’s expedition: twenty pfennigs, and the city had been theirs. He remembered how intently Sascha had listened to all of his stories about the bridges and statues and monuments, Berlin brought to life in a child’s gaze; how he had always insisted that they get out-somewhere in the city’s remote corners-to sample a chocolate or a cake at some unknown cafe, only to stash most of it away in a pocket for Martha; and how those remnants had always arrived back at the flat, more lint than chocolate, to Martha’s absolute delight.
Hoffner had no reason to blame Sascha for his contempt. Like the boy, that city no longer existed.
“They’re going to be governed by socialists now,” said Hoffner. “Far worse than any bullets could have done to them.” He saw a momentary slip in Sascha’s otherwise grim expression. “You like that, do you?” The tram came to a stop, and Sascha gave a shrug. The two stepped off and into the freezing rain. “So do I.”
The group outside the Gardens was far larger than Hoffner had expected. He had been anticipating a few shopkeepers, maybe a building porter or two: a body in daylight always brought out the true devotees, no matter what the weather. This, however, was actually a crowd. Moving closer in, Hoffner noticed a small unit of patrolmen. They had set up an improvised barrier and were trying to keep order. Braun’s promised hysteria had begun.
With Sascha in tow, Hoffner pushed his way through and up to the nearest of the Schutzi officers. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked as he pulled out his badge.
The patrolman recognized the name at once; he, too, had seen this morning’s papers. “Kriminal-Kommissar Hoffner!” he said in a loud, enthusiastic voice.
Everyone within earshot turned at the mention of the name: evidently, no one had missed today’s news. “The man in charge,” Hoffner repeated as he ignored the stares. “Obviously that’s not you.”
The man snapped to attention. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. Right away, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Still keeping the crowd back, the patrolman tried to locate his sergeant.
Hoffner peered past him. Set against the growing herd, the plaza looked desolate. The few who were wandering outside the gate to the zoo had turned up their collars against the wind; fists were pressed deep inside pockets, some in uniform, some not. Hoffner recognized several of the faces from yesterday’s briefing: the press had managed to get through. He was about to say something to the patrolman, when he noticed Polpo Kommissar Walther Hermannsohn among them. Hoffner wondered if he was meant to be surprised by Hermannsohn’s presence. The man was taller than he remembered-no Tamshik, this time, to dwarf him. Truth to tell, Hoffner would have preferred Tamshik. At least there he knew what to expect. Here, even within the small gathering, Hermannsohn seemed to stand alone. “Never mind,” said Hoffner as he stepped over the barrier and out into the plaza. “I see who I need.”
With a surge of authority, the patrolman reached over and grabbed Sascha by the shoulder. “Not so fast, my young friend.”
Hoffner turned back. Again, Sascha’s size startled him: the boy was as big as the man clutching him. “He’s with me, Patrolman,” said Hoffner. His impatience had little effect. “You’ve never seen a junior detective, is that it?” The man’s conceit gave way to confusion. Hoffner spoke with greater precision. “Any chance I can get my detective back?”
Confusion turned to helplessness. The man suddenly snapped to attention and released Sascha. “Yes, of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”
“Don’t let the age fool you, Patrolman. The good ones always start young. At least in the Kripo.”
“Of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. My apologies.” He turned nervously to Sascha. “My apologies, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.”
Hoffner was about to answer when Sascha said, “Just don’t let it happen again, Patrolman.” There was a surprising weight to Sascha’s tone. Hoffner bit down on his tongue to keep from smiling.
The man offered an efficient nod. “No, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.”
Without acknowledging his father, Sascha pulled up his collar and headed out into the plaza. Hoffner gave the man a reproachful nod, then followed Sascha out. “A little hard on him, weren’t you?” he said when they were side by side.
“He’ll get over it,” said Sascha.
Had Kommissar Hermannsohn not turned at that moment, Hoffner might have placed an arm across Sascha’s back and taken him out into the city for the day. To hell with all of this, he thought. But Hermannsohn did turn, along with every newspaperman by the gate. As one, they started in toward their prey. Hoffner was about to raise a hand to ward them off when he saw Hermannsohn bark out something to three Schutzi officers who were standing nearby. To Hoffner’s complete amazement, the patrolmen moved over and held the pressmen back. Hoffner moved past the buzz of questions and over to Hermannsohn.
“My thanks, Herr Kommissar,” said Hoffner.
Hermannsohn nodded quietly. “I imagine that’s the sort of thing you can do without, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Hoffner realized that this was the first time he had heard the man speak. Hermannsohn’s tone was oddly nonthreatening, although there was nothing inviting to it, either. “Ah, and young Hoffner, as well.” His familiarity was equally disconcerting. “I hear he’s quite the swordsman.”
Hoffner now regretted having brought Sascha along. “Yes.”
“And this is the source of his resolve on the strip, is it?”
Hoffner had no idea what Hermannsohn was referring to. “Excuse me, Kommissar?”
“A boy at a murder site. I imagine we each build character in our own way.” When Hoffner said nothing, Hermannsohn added, “A joke, Kriminal-Kommissar.”
Hoffner waited, then said, “I imagine it was.”
Hermannsohn smiled quietly and then motioned to the gate. “The body is this way.”
Hoffner was about to follow when he saw the uncertainty in Sascha’s eyes: there had been no mention of a murder or a body during the tram ride out. How could there have been? The complete absurdity of this moment only now came clear to Hoffner. What had he been thinking? “I can’t take you inside, Alexander.”
Sascha showed an instant of relief before nodding in disappointment. “Well, then, I’ll wait here, Father.”
The boy acted with such poise, thought Hoffner. “Good man,” he said. For just a moment, Hoffner placed a hand on Sascha’s arm. Somehow, neither seemed to mind it. He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small flask. He opened it and handed it to Sascha. “Should keep you warm for a while.” Sascha hesitated. “Go on. She doesn’t have to know.” Sascha took a quick sip, and coughed as he handed it back. Hoffner smiled. Just a boy, he thought. What had been so frightening in that? Hoffner then held the flask out to Hermannsohn. “Kommissar?” Hermannsohn politely refused. “No, I didn’t think so.” Without taking a drink, Hoffner pocketed the flask and followed Hermannsohn out into the Gardens.
There was something so depressing about the zoo in rain. The little buildings-some Frenchman’s notion of international kinship-were each designed in the style of the countries from which the animals had come. Laden with ice and damp, they looked less like invitations to foreign climes than sodden gingerbread houses. A merry skip past them became a somber slog: not much fun in knowing what dreary looked like in China or India or darkest Africa.
Hoffner said, “Nice when the Polpo puts in an appearance on a criminal case. Or did I miss the Oberkommissar’s point yesterday?”
Hermannsohn ignored the question; he seemed the type to ignore anything he found unpleasant. He took them past the elephant house-Hoffner wondered how many elephants actually roamed the Taj Mahal-and into the more remote regions of the Gardens. “You were planning on bringing the boy to the site,” said Hermannsohn. “I find that most interesting.”
“Do you?” Hoffner could change the subject just as easily. “As interesting as I find having the Tageblatt and the Morgenpost on hand?”
“Ah, yes,” said Hermannsohn. “You really never can trust these Schutzi patrolmen, can you?” He led Hoffner away from the animal houses and down a path that wound its way past a public toilet and beyond a small utility shed. The trees grew thicker as they walked.
They came to a link chain that hung across the path. A small sign dangled from it that read, DURCHGANG VERBOTEN. Two exclamation points hammered home the message: Passage Forbidden!! Hoffner knew his Berliners. This would have been enough to keep a small band of revolutionaries at bay. Hermannsohn stepped over the chain. Hoffner did the same. Half a minute later, they came to a clearing.
Hoffner was genuinely surprised by what they found: at the clearing’s center was the all-too-familiar fencing, scaffolding, and power engine that had come to define Berlin under construction. Two Schutzi patrolmen stood at either end of the small opening to the pit. Beyond them was a wider gap in the trees, an avenue for a single wagon to make its way through with supplies. More interesting were the three black Daimler convertible saloons that were parked at its edge; their chauffeurs were each enjoying a nice smoke.
“At least your man is consistent,” said Hermannsohn, as he led Hoffner toward the ladder.
Hoffner kept his eyes on the automobiles. The chauffeurs’ coats were not yet soaked through: they had not been here long. “I had no idea they were building this far out,” he said.
“They’re not,” said Hermannsohn. He reached the ladder and started down. Hoffner followed.
Had Hoffner been looking for consistency, the excavation site would have served perfectly. The climb down brought him into a cavern that seemed almost identical to the one he had seen two nights ago in Senefelderplatz, police lamps and all. Even the group of four men standing at the far end of the tunnel felt eerily familiar. That, however, was where the similarities ended.
It was clear from their clothes which of the four belonged to the Daimlers above. Like their automobiles, three of the men were long and sleek: Russian fur lined their coat collars; English wool creased the cuffs of their trousers; and their boots had the shine of Italian leather. War had done nothing to compromise their politically impudent tastes. For Hoffner, though, it was the fingernails-even at this distance and in this light-that made plain the stratum from which these men had descended: flat and pink, and never once having been cut by the men themselves. Hoffner knew exactly who they were: Prussian businessmen, and a far more dangerous breed than their military counterparts. War never thinned their numbers; inflexibility never stifled their success. They spoke to one another in hushed tones, a language that required fewer words, though greater subtlety of gesture, than the patter that flowed from the jaws of common Berlin. These were men who survived-and survived well-no matter who might be wielding the reins of government.
The fourth among them was Polpo Direktor Gerhard Weigland, in all his roundness. He looked completely out of place, nodding continuously while the others spoke. When he caught sight of Hoffner, he clumsily cleared his throat. The others turned.
“At last,” said Weigland with no small amount of relief. “Gentlemen, this is the Kripo detective I’ve been telling you about.” Hermannsohn remained in the shadows as Hoffner drew closer. “Kommissar Nikolai Hoffner, may I present the Directors of Firma Ganz-Neurath. Herren Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf”-Weigland motioned with his arm-“Kommissar Hoffner.”
Hoffner had never been the recipient of three such crisp bows of the head. “Meine Herren,” he said, with a lazy nod of his own.
“Herr Kommissar.” Trger spoke for all three.
Hoffner cut right to it. “I’m guessing this would be one of your sites, Herr Direktor?”
“Along with those in the Senefelder and Rosenthaler Platz, yes, Herr Kommissar. I believe you’re familiar with them?”
“The projected U-Bahn stations,” said Hoffner. “And dead women keep cropping up inside of them.”
Trger appreciated Hoffner’s bluntness. “Yes. They do.”
“You’re aware, mein Herr”-Hoffner spoke as if neither Polpo man was present-“that Herr Direktor Weigland and Herr Kommissar Hermannsohn are not with the Kripo?” He was enjoying seeing Weigland stand silently by.
“I am.”
“So you consider this a political case?”
Trger took a moment. He was gauging Hoffner, not the case. “The Herr Direktor and I are old friends, Kommissar. He has been kind enough to extend the services of his department.”
Hoffner had no reason to believe that fealty was the sole reason for the Polpo’s continuing interest in his case. Weigland might have convinced Trger and his fellow Directors of that, but Hoffner knew otherwise. “I see.”
“I’m not sure you do, Kommissar.” There was nothing combative in the tone: it was a simple statement of fact. Trger continued: “What I’m about to tell you cannot leave this site. Are we clear on that?” Hoffner nodded. “Good, because where we are standing doesn’t actually exist.” Trger saw the surprise in Hoffner’s eyes. “Yes. We first moved ground here just over five years ago. December of 1913. This was going to be the grand terminus for a line leading all the way back into the heart of the city. By the end of the decade. That was the aim, Kommissar. That was what the Kaiser wanted.”
“Forgive me, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner, “but I don’t recall reading anything about a proposed line this far out.”
“Of course you don’t. No one does. The Kaiser was afraid that if news got out that an underground train-not a tram, mind you, or an omnibus, not something in the daylight, Kommissar-but something like this was being designed to connect Berlin West to the scum of Kreuzberg and Prenzlauer-well then, a great many people might have had good reason to make the Kaiser’s life as uncomfortable as possible. Safety, insulation-that sort of thing. What the Kaiser knew was that his Charlottenburg faithful simply needed time to see how wonderful his new underground trains were going to be. He knew they would eventually come begging for their own, so why not have the trains at the ready when they did?”
“But only as far as the zoo,” said Hoffner.
“Yes.”
“No reason for the Kaiser to press his luck by taking the trains into the heart of the West.”
Trger was enjoying this more than he was letting on. “Something like that, Kommissar.”
“And then the war came.”
“Exactly. We all discovered that the Kaiser was more interested in the world beyond Berlin than in her trains. Everything came to a stop, and the Number Two U-Bahn line happily drifted into oblivion. That is, of course, until last week. I can’t say we enjoyed hearing that women were being killed and then moved to our sites, but until this morning, Kommissar, no one knew about that. Luckily, they still have no idea about the Rosenthaler station. That, I have no doubt, will come out soon enough. When it does, our firm will have to answer some rather unpleasant questions. That, however, does not concern us. Embarrassment fades. The sites in the middle of town threaten no one.” He paused. “This one, however, does-especially given recent events. You understand what I am saying now, Kommissar?”
Hoffner did. The revolution had made an underground site this far west far more troubling. The image of a ten-thousand-strong mass moving down the Siegesallee in early January was still fresh in everyone’s minds: how much more frightening would the prospect be of an endless stream of such filth making its way out from beneath the streets in the dead of night? At any moment, they could emerge like rats to run rampant. Herr Direktor Trger and his cohorts might be willing to stomach the hysteria produced by a maniac on the loose; they would not, however, tempt the kind of panic that could tear Berlin apart at the seams. “And you’ve managed to keep it hidden all this time?” said Hoffner.
“They think we’ve been building a holding pool for some enormous fish,” said Trger. “Tell me, Herr Kommissar, does this look like a holding pool to you?”
Hoffner said, “May I see the body, Herr Direktor?”
“You understand our concern, Kommissar.”
Hoffner spoke candidly: “That the Polpo knows how to keep the press at bay, and that we in the Kripo-especially those of us who live in Kreuzberg-have never been quite as useful? Yes, Herr Direktor. I understand that quite well. May I see the body now?” Hoffner enjoyed the sudden tension that was radiating from Weigland.
Trger, on the other hand, seemed amused by the jab. “Then we’re clear, Kommissar?”
“Absolutely, Herr Direktor.”
“Naturally, my colleagues and I are eager to assist you in any way we can.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Herr Direktor.”
Trger waited. He continued to gaze at Hoffner as he spoke to Weigland. “You shouldn’t have let this one get away to the Kripo, Gerhard. That’s not like you.”
Weigland tried a smile. “No, Herr Direktor.”
“Any help at all, Kommissar.”
Hoffner nodded.
Weigland waited to make sure that Trger was finished before motioning Hoffner in the direction of the body. “It’s this way,” he said as he led Hoffner to the end of the tunnel; the three directors started back for the ladder.
“Always have to be clever, don’t you?” said Weigland under his breath.
Hoffner said dryly, “You have some very impressive friends, Herr Direktor. I’m very impressed.”
“Just finish the case, Nikolai. Make all our lives easier.”
The woman was lying facedown in the dirt, at most a day since she had been killed. Hoffner crouched down next to her and saw the drag marks leading up to the spot; he saw the ripped bodice of her dress, the age in her face, the diameter-cut design etched across her back, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was not the work of Paul Wouters.
Hoffner might have been guessing had he come to the conclusion from her clothes alone. The dress and shoes were too young for a woman her age, and there was nothing of the solitary nurse or seamstress in them. Hoffner drew out his pen and lifted up the back hem of her dress. There, as he had expected, he found the telltale sign just above her knee: a little purse was tied on tightly to her thigh. He weighed it in his hand. It was still filled with coins. This woman had been a prostitute, and far more than Wouters could ever have handled.
The clothes and occupation, however, were only confirmation for what Hoffner saw in the design. He ran his thumb along the ruts. He pressed down onto the cold flaps of skin. They were jagged, their angle wrong. These had come at the hands of the second carver.
Hoffner glanced down the tunnel and felt Weigland’s gaze over his shoulder. Someone had gone to great lengths to create the perfect setting. Everything was laid out exactly as it had been in Senefelderplatz two days ago, as it had been over the last month and a half at each of the other sites: the Mnz Strasse roadwork, the sewer entrance at Oranienburger Strasse, the Prenzlauer underpass, the grotto off Blowplatz. Everything perfect, thought Hoffner, and just a day after Herr Braun’s revelations.
He was about to turn back to the body when something else stopped him. Hoffner continued to stare down the tunnel. He saw it in the lights hanging from above, in the placement and dimension of the wooden boards along the dirt walls. It was in the layout of the planks, in the steel beams, in the height of the ceiling, its contours-everything about the tunnel. He had been distracted, first by Trger, then by the victim. Now it was infinitely clear.
Hoffner jumped up and started toward the directors, who were almost to the ladder. He quickened his pace. “Herr Direktor.” He began to run as he yelled out, “One moment, please.”
Trger stopped. He turned around. “Herr Kommissar?”
Hoffner drew up to him. He could hear Weigland trying to catch up from behind. “Herr Direktor.” Hoffner spoke with intensity. “This site. These sites. How are they designed?”
Trger seemed unsure of the question: “You mean how is the tunnel built, Herr Kommissar?”
“No, the designs, Herr Direktor. How are they configured?”
Trger glanced momentarily at his colleagues. “We have a model. What’s called a Master Draft. It acts as a central plan. Why, Kommissar?”
“Each site, Herr Direktor? Each one is designed in the same way?” Hoffner felt the pieces falling into place.
“In theory, yes.” Trger was still not sure what he was explaining. “One basic tunnel design. One basic track design. It makes for much more cost-effective production of materials, instruction to foremen, so forth and so on.” Trger was finished answering questions. “Why is this of any importance?”
“So the Senefelder site would be almost identical to this one?”
“More or less, yes.” Trger was growing impatient. “Why are you asking this?”
“Even something as involved as the Rosenthaler Platz station. An arcade. That, as well?”
Trger answered abruptly. “With a few modifications, yes. The same construction. Kommissar, what has this to do with your case?”
Images were flying through Hoffner’s head. He saw the frustration in Trger’s eyes. “Thank you, Herr Direktor.” And without another word, Hoffner took hold of the ladder and headed up.
Out on the plaza, Sascha was holding court among a group of Schutzi patrolmen. Hoffner caught his breath as he made his way across.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, still winded. The men moved off. “I need a favor, Sascha.”
The boy’s eyes widened, and not for the misuse of his name. This was the first time he had ever heard his father ask for help. “A favor?” Sascha said uncertainly.
“I need you to go back to the Alex. To my office.”
“Now?” he said more eagerly.
“Yes, now. There might be a telephone call. If Herr Fichte shows up, you tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Sascha nodded through the instructions. “And if the telephone call does come in?”
Hoffner had not thought that far ahead. “Good point. You tell the gentleman that I’ll call him back. A Herr Kepner. Take his number. He’s to say nothing else on the line. You’re to make sure of that. Nothing else. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Excellent.” Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. “You’re doing me a tremendous good turn, Sascha.” He handed the coins to the boy. “Whatever you don’t use on the trams, you keep for yourself, all right?” He squeezed a hand on the boy’s arm. “Thank you.” He then headed off.
“You’re welcome, Father.” But Hoffner was already out of earshot.
Five and a half kilometers across town, a sign had replaced the Schutzi patrolman: ENTRY STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. Evidently it had worked just as well. The Rosenthaler site was completely deserted. Hoffner took hold of the ladder and headed down.
Fifteen rungs in, the cavern became pitch black. He reached the bottom, struck a match, and gently wedged it between two wooden slats.
From the little he could see, Hoffner managed to locate a stray pick lying on the ground. He took it and began to wrap his handkerchief around its wooden end. He then pulled out his flask and doused the cloth in liquor. Holding the pick by its chisel edge, he struck a second match and lit the improvised torch. At once the underbelly of the station opened up in wild shadows in front of him. The odor of feces was long gone, as was any indication that a family had been living down here until ten days ago. Even the boards for the feather beds had been restored to their rightful places.
Trger had been right: the space was virtually identical to the other designs Hoffner had seen in the past three days. The spokes that led out into the arcade were simply other single-line tunnels, those “modifications” Trger had mentioned. They, however, were not the reason Hoffner had come.
He set off down the central spoke and back toward the cavern in which they had first found the body. He deliberately kept his head down, his eyes on the dirt path. He needed to see it from Wouters’s perspective-from the proper angle-and that was possible only from inside Mary Koop’s cavern.
Hoffner made his way through various entryways and along several tunnels before he reached the opening and headed for the far wall. He found Koop’s indented outline in the dirt: six weeks of occupation had kept it fresh. The little ridges of mud seemed to ripple in the torchlight. Even now, her frame looked as if it had been a part of the flooring, all along. Hoffner took in a deep breath and turned around.
“My God,” he whispered.
The design was everywhere. Hoffner could have closed his eyes and traced its path without ever once taking a false step. He moved back to the cavern’s opening and felt himself being pulled into the pattern, not in the way he had felt on the streets of Berlin-not in some conjured reimagining of the ruts and curves of a woman’s back-but in the actual carvings themselves: he turned, and the tunnels turned with him; he reached out for a crossing line, and the wall gave way to an opening that cut across his path; he ran his hands along the walls and felt the cold ridges of human flesh. He had missed it before, too many distractions, too much to get in his way. Now he was a part of the diameter-cut.
The edge of the design ended abruptly at the entryway to a tunnel that led back to the central cavern. Beyond the entryway, two steel support beams were rooted into the walls directly across from each other. Hoffner stepped through the entryway and continued down the tunnel and away from the design, back toward the ladder. He found another set of steel beams perhaps twenty meters on. A third pair appeared, again at the same interval.
Here the construction was almost identical to those in the Senefelderplatz and the Tiergarten. Hoffner turned around and quickly headed back to where the Wouters design began.
He started in through the entryway: twenty meters, forty, sixty. There were no steel beams. The tunnels here were not a part of the Master Draft design. They had been added on, and quickly: too quickly to afford the arrival of the steel beams.
Someone had given Wouters a home, the only one capable of making him feel safe: sculpted in the perfect image of his own twisted mind.
Hoffner was suddenly struck by the word. This was perfect. This was Wouters’s ideal. Of course. Another piece of the puzzle flashed into focus.
Hoffner found himself running back to the cavern, back through the opening, back to the outline of Mary Koop’s body. He stepped inside the small ridges and drove the pick into a wooden beam above his head. The torch glowed freely as he pulled his notebook and pen from his coat pocket and began to sketch the diameter-cut, one last time. The lines danced on the page from the light, but it was there. He drew an X for the spot in which he was now standing, and stared down at the page.
The “optimal point of origin.” He had found it. Mary Koop was his starting point. All he needed, now, was to understand the design’s flow, and he would have Paul Wouters.
Hoffner missed the call by five minutes.
“He told you nothing?” he said as he pulled Wouters’s original sketches from the filing cabinet. He was moving quickly. He needed to see Kepner.
“Nothing,” said Sascha.
Fichte said, “The boy was remarkably convincing.” They were both caught up in Hoffner’s impatience.
“Good.” Hoffner placed the sheets in his coat pocket and pointed to Fichte. “You and I have a man to see.” He then pointed to Sascha. “And you need to get home.” He saw the disappointment in Sascha’s eyes. “I know, but even I can’t stretch the rules that far.” It was all he needed to say.
Out on the Alex, they found a taxi for Sascha, then one for themselves. Hoffner ran through an abbreviated version of the afternoon’s events on the ride out. Any theories he might have come up with about the directors from Ganz-Neurath, or the reappearance of the second carver, or even the design of the Rosenthaler station, he kept to himself. Hoffner knew that Fichte would have had trouble processing the information. He was having trouble with it himself. Best, then, to concentrate on Wouters, for both of them.
Kepner showed no surprise when the two Kripomen appeared at his door: the brevity of the telephone conversation had told him to expect visitors. He brought them into his sitting room, where Herr Brenner was already waiting. Hoffner noticed several pages of sketches laid out across the coffee table. Kepner had worked quickly.
“The three on the far left,” said Kepner. Hoffner was already scanning the sheets. Kepner told the men to sit. “I believe those are what you are looking for.”
Fichte spoke up as Hoffner reached for the pages: “Perhaps Herr Brenner would care to wait in another room?”
Hoffner had to stifle the urge to upbraid Fichte in front of the two men. He took the sheets. “My apologies for my Assistent, Herr Kepner. He is-overly cautious.”
Kepner waved Hoffner off. “Better that than the other, Herr Kommissar.”
Out of nowhere, Fichte rose to his feet. He snapped his head in a bow. “My apologies, Herr Brenner.”
Hoffner thought the gesture a bit extravagant, but he knew it would keep Fichte quiet for the rest of the interview. Brenner nodded quietly.
“It’s a Bruges design,” said Kepner. “I have yet to determine an optimal point of origin-” He stopped himself. “You understand what I mean by this?”
“Yes, mein Herr. The starting point.”
“Exactly. These are only rough sketches. Anything more detailed will take more time.”
It was odd, seeing the design drawn with such precision: a woman’s flesh created its own imperfections; Hoffner’s rendering had been “crude” by Kepner’s estimation. This, however, showed the true artistry and intricacy of the pattern. Lines and turns Hoffner had never imagined filled the little sketches. He wondered if, perhaps in his haste, he had missed the design in one of Wouters’s pages. It hardly mattered now; he was about to show Kepner where to find his optimal point of origin.
“What if you were to start here, mein Herr?” Hoffner placed the sheet on the table and pointed to the spot that approximated the point where Mary Koop’s body had been found.
Kepner pulled out his glasses and leaned forward. He had not been anticipating suggestions from the Kripo. Fichte seemed equally surprised. “From where?” said Kepner. Hoffner kept his finger on the sheet as he turned it toward Kepner. Kepner gazed down with an uncertain stare until his eyes began to move through the sketch. “All right,” he said absently. Without looking up, he pulled a short pencil from his pocket and, very slowly, began to create another replica, another possible route for the design. He continued to glance back at the other drawings he had made, along with a list of calculations he had written out on a separate page. “Is this a guess, Herr Inspector?” he said as he continued to draw.
“An educated one, mein Herr.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be.” Kepner hummed in a monotone as he went back and forth between drawings and figures.
Progress was slow going-Kepner kept at it for nearly twenty minutes-as Hoffner began to see what he needed. If Mary Koop had been the optimal point of origin in the station design, then the Rosenthaler Platz-Wouters’s home-had to be the origin in the city design. What else could it be? It was the one site that Wouters had meant to keep pure, or at least beyond the reach of death. The preserving grease had said as much. That was why it was the deviation; and that was why it held the key.
Hoffner tried to reconstruct the path of Wouters’s victims in his head, taking Rosenthaler Platz as his starting point: southeast to Mnz Strasse, due west to Oranienburger, northeast to Prenzlauer, west to Blowplatz, and finally north to Senefelderplatz. All the while, he continued to watch Kepner. With each turn of the pencil, Kepner was following the identical shifts in direction. Hoffner rarely let himself give in to moments like these. Now his heart began to accelerate as Kepner drew closer and closer to the sixth knot.
“There,” said Hoffner.
Kepner looked up, unsure why he was being asked to stop. “It’s hardly finished, Herr Inspector.”
“That was your sixth knot?”
Kepner went back and counted. “The sixth that required a direction change. Yes.”
Hoffner stared across at the design. “Southeast,” he said to himself.
“Excuse me, Herr Inspector?”
Hoffner refocused. “Nothing, mein Herr.”
“‘Nothing,’” Kepner echoed cautiously. “And this is what you needed?”
Hoffner thought for a moment. If Wouters-and not the second carver-was consistent, he would be depositing his next victim sometime in the next three or four days. There was little chance that a body was already waiting for them at that sixth knot. Even so, Hoffner had no intention of making a return trip to Charlottenburg. He told Kepner to continue.
When Kepner began to make the turn away from the eighth knot, Hoffner stopped him again. “There. That’s fine, mein Herr.”
Kepner glanced up. “You’re sure this time?” Hoffner nodded. “Good.” Kepner dropped the pencil and sat back. He removed his glasses and rubbed two fingers on the bridge of his nose.
Hoffner picked up the pencil. “May I?” he said. Kepner looked over; he was still blinking the strain from his eyes. He nodded indifferently.
Hoffner took a clean sheet and began to sketch Kepner’s design, but on a much larger scale: large enough to conform to the map that was hanging back on his office wall. Hoffner finished and slid the drawing across the table. Kepner had been watching him. He now leaned in to take a closer look.
“The dimensions are still accurate?” said Hoffner.
Kepner continued to examine the sheet: “As I said, Inspector, these drawings are rough. I would need other tools to make a perfectly accurate rendering, but this, I suspect, is as close as any I’ve constructed.” He slid the sheet back to Hoffner. “I doubt this mesh would ever be configured on such a large scale, but then again, I doubt many Kripo officers would be as consumed by lace as you are.” Kepner raised a hand to stop Hoffner from answering. “I don’t want to know the details, Herr Inspector. I’m tired, that’s all.”
Herr Brenner stood. “You have everything you need?” Brenner might have been a cold fish, but he was a cold fish devoted to his father-in-law.
“Yes, mein Herr.” Hoffner began to shuffle the papers together. “May I take these?” He continued to stack them.
“You are taking them, Inspector,” said Kepner with the hint of a smile. He had sunk back comfortably into his chair. “What would I do with them, anyway? Just make sure you catch him before he comes too far west, that’s all.” Hoffner stopped in mid-shuffle. Kepner enjoyed Hoffner’s momentary surprise. “There’s no stricture about reading before sundown, Inspector.”
Kepner had known exactly what he was doing, all along. He had simply managed to feel safer not knowing the details.
“I’ll try, mein Herr.”
“Good,” said Kepner. “There is one favor I have to ask of you.”
Hoffner finished stacking. “Of course, mein Herr.”
“This aspect of your case. The lace. I’m hoping it can remain out of your reports. Lace, you see, is primarily. .” Kepner hesitated. “That is to say, the quality of this particular lace-”
“Lace is a Jewish concern, Inspector,” Brenner cut in bluntly. “In Berlin, trade and production of this type are run primarily by Jews.”
“I see,” said Hoffner.
Kepner deferred to his son-in-law. Brenner continued: “If it should get out, if the newspapers should decide to print that we were in any way associated with this case-that this man was using our designs as some kind of inspiration for his madness-you understand our concern.”
Fichte piped in, “A loss of business, mein Herr?”
The room fell silent. Brenner had long ago learned to swallow his rage. When he answered, he spoke quietly, deliberately. “No, Herr Detective. Another excuse to blame the Jews. Not that the revolution hasn’t delivered on that front.”
Before Fichte could open his mouth again, Hoffner said, “Of course, mein Herr.” He stood, the pages in hand. “None of this needs to come out. The reading public never goes in much for the details, anyway. You have my word.”
Brenner remained silent. He glanced at Kepner. The older man nodded. Brenner then turned back to Hoffner. “I’ll show you out.”
Forty minutes later, Hoffner stood in his office, slowly penciling the last lines of the design onto the map. He made sure that the lengths of each of the segments conformed to the basic proportions of Kepner’s original, but it was clear even before he had made it halfway to the sixth knot where Wouters would be bringing his next victim. Hoffner stared at the spot. Somehow he had known all along.
The Ochsenhof.
What could be better, he thought. Two city blocks filled with the worst human refuse that Berlin had to offer. Murder was routine in the “cattle yard,” not that Wouters could have known that. The man was simply following his design. That it was now leading him to a place that, in essence, lay beyond the reach of the Kripo was simply his good fortune.
Hoffner stared a moment longer, then began to remove the pins.
Fichte said, “How did you know where to tell Kepner to start?”
Hoffner continued with the pins. “That’s an excellent question, Hans.” Hoffner went to work on the tacks that were holding the map to the wall. “Give me a hand here.” Fichte stepped over and the two brought the map to the desk. Very delicately, Hoffner began to fold it.
Fichte said, “We don’t need the map anymore?”
Hoffner concentrated on the folds. “We don’t need anyone else seeing what’s been written on it.”
Fichte understood. “So how did you know?” he said.
Hoffner made the final crease. “The cavern inside the Rosenthaler station,” he said. He felt strange placing the map inside the filing cabinet rather than in a folder for the archive clerk. Maps came down only when cases were complete. This case, however, was changing the rules as it went.
“What about it?” said Fichte.
Hoffner locked the drawer. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss it. Right now, I need ten minutes. Then meet me downstairs, and bring whatever’s going to keep you the driest.”
Wouters was making them wait.
Three days camped outside the Ochsenhof had taken its toll. Fichte complained of everything-cramp, filth, exhaustion; Hoffner was feeling it in his lower back and legs. He said nothing. He knew that Mulackstrasse was never kind. At best, it only goaded the rain. Tonight the wind was whipping up. Even the most secure nooks and alleyways had fallen prey to the biting damp and chill.
Three a.m., and they were holed up in a recessed stairwell directly across from the tenement. Six or so of its entrances were in clear sight. Hoffner had found a bit of a muslin tarp that, along with a flask of brandy, was helping to keep them warm. It was a relative term. And, of course, there was the price to pay for the added heat: three minutes each morning at a nearby washbasin and toilet were doing little to dull the stink. Fichte was a large man. He was giving off as good as he got.
Stench and cold aside, Hoffner was grateful to be out on the streets: it meant that he was away from the Alex. The last few days had brought the “chisel murders” to a fever pitch. Any reason to avoid those unending requests for interviews and the like suited him just fine: Sunday, the Tiergarten body had graced the front pages, although Weigland’s pull had managed to keep any mention of Ganz-Neurath, or U-Bahn 2, from the public; Monday, Berlin had met the Rosenthaler Platz victim, though she remained unidentified, as Hoffner and Fichte were the only ones, thus far, to have given Mary Koop a name; and today, the list of the remaining victims-dating all the way back to the very first, in Mnz Strasse-had appeared in Kvatsch’s BZ afternoon article.
The Kripo leak had been working double time to make sure that any momentum lost to the revolution was now being paid back, and with interest. Anxiety over a pair of murders that had occurred in the last ten days was gaining a kind of retrospective boost of panic: the murders stretched back over months, and Berliners felt compelled to make up for lost time. The first accusations of Kripo incompetence were beginning to surface.
Hoffner stretched his neck. “I’m going to check on the boys.”
Hoffner had known from the start that the tenement was too large to manage from one lookout point, and so he had turned to little Franz. There was no one else at the Alex he could trust: word would get out, and Wouters would slip through their hands. Hoffner had told Prager that he was getting close; Prager might have been feeling the pressure himself, but he was smart enough to know that Hoffner worked best on his own terms.
Franz had recruited a group of teenaged Schlgers, street thugs who blended in perfectly with their surroundings: probably one full set of teeth among them. They needed the money; Hoffner needed the manpower. He had shown each of them the photograph of Wouters-the one he had pulled from van Acker’s file-although a description of Wouters’s diminutive size, and the fact that he would be dragging a trunk, had been far more helpful.
The nights had been easiest for Hoffner. Fichte preferred the days, what with the chance to stretch his legs, move through the crowds, get something hot to eat. All that changed after dark. In the silence, Fichte would drift off and leave Hoffner alone to piece together the strands that lay beyond Wouters: the second carver, the military connection to the Ascomycete 4, the “additions” to the Rosenthaler station, even the choice of the Tiergarten site as a threat to the city’s tenuous social order. They all led him back to one name: Luxemburg. Naturally, the why still eluded him. In a strange way, it was Wouters who now seemed more and more out of place. Rosa, however, remained suspended above it all, the world unwilling to “let her be,” even in death. Hoffner had kept the little book with him. He had read through it from time to time as Fichte slept. It held no answers, but there was something quieting in it.
He pulled back the tarp. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said. The sudden slap of chilled air forced a muted grunt from Fichte. Hoffner stood. “Try to stay awake this time.”
Cramp in his leg forced Hoffner to take the steps one at a time. Keeping to the shadows, he peered out in both directions. The street was empty; even the prostitutes were staying in. Hoffner pulled down the brim of his hat and headed out into the lamplight.
He played the drunk during his rounds. The shuffling feet, the bobbing head, the single hand held out along the shop fronts for balance, were not an uncommon sight this time of night on Mulackstrasse. In fact, on his last circuit, Hoffner had nearly bumped into the genuine article: a weaving body had appeared from a side street, doing its best against the rain and wind and its own inebriation. One of the boys had actually mistaken him for Hoffner and popped out. The boy had been too late to see his mistake. Caught, he had done what any boy in his position would have done: he had tossed the man for everything he was worth. Hoffner had pretended to retch during the performance. The man, to his credit, had suffered it all with a drunk’s affability. He had even managed a pat on Hoffner’s back-“It’ll pass, my friend, it’ll pass”-as he continued down the street. This time, Hoffner walked alone.
Halfway down the block, he propped himself up against a wall as if he were catching his breath. “Anything?” he said quietly.
The boy had learned his lesson; he remained within the shadows. “Not a peep, Eminence.”
This one had a sense of humor. “No one to clean out this time?”
“Not my cock-up.”
“No choice, was it?”
“That’s right.”
Hoffner bent over as if he were about to retch. “But you’ll be splitting the proceeds with your mates, yes?”
“Splitting the what?”
“Just make sure Franz gets his cut.”
There was a silence. “Yeah. All right.”
Hoffner spat a few times, then moved off. He turned the corner.
The western side of the building was no less desolate. Another six or so entrances waited silently under the lamplight. Hoffner knew that they had been lucky thus far. Lamps had a tendency to burn out at the oddest of times in this part of town. Mulackstrasse in shadow was one thing; in total darkness it was suicide.
He checked in with the other boys, two more lookouts with nothing to report. He dropped a pack of cigarettes in the shadows at each of the posts: something to keep the boys awake. He then headed back, the sound of his own footfalls a solitary echo on the street. He was tired and wet. Maybe he could take a nap, let Hans earn his pay? Not much chance of that.
It was only when he reached the stairwell that Hoffner heard the scurrying of feet from behind him. He turned to see little Franz running up. The boy’s expression told him everything.
With newfound energy, Hoffner whispered into the shadows. “We’ve got him, Hans.” He waited to hear the tarp being pulled back before running out to meet the boy. Hoffner no longer felt the damp.
“Where?” he said as the two met in the middle of the street.
Franz spoke through gasps. “Just now.” He motioned back to the corner. “The fourth entryway.”
“Alone?”
The boy nodded.
“With a trunk?”
Again, the boy nodded.
Hoffner had heard nothing, no scraping of metal on cobblestone. How had Wouters maneuvered the trunk? There was no time to worry about that now. Without another word, Hoffner raced off. He was at the corner-Fichte and Franz chasing after him-when he saw five or six of the boys gathered at one of the far entryways, each of them pressed up against the door. Hoffner ran up to them.
“He’s gone down to the pit rooms,” whispered one of the boys. “Heard him go down. We can take him, if you want.”
Hoffner pulled his Mauser one-four-eight from his belt and tried to catch his breath. The pistol had been with him since 1912. He had fired it twice in the last seven years, once to test the action on the trigger, the other to salute Knig in a drunken farewell on some Tyrolean hillside. The lettering on the gripstrap marking-KripoDZ. 148-still shone like new.
At the sight of the gun, the boys edged back. Even Fichte was momentarily unnerved. Hoffner said, “No one takes him.” His breathing was still heavy. “You see him leave the building, you start shouting. You don’t go near him, you keep him in sight. Understood?” Fichte nodded along with the boys. “Get out your pistol, Hans.” Fichte did as he was told. Hoffner then pulled open the door and headed in.
The short corridor was lit like an interrogation room: stark light bounced off cracked walls and tile, and the smell of cabbage filled the air, a sourness seasoned with urine. At the stairs, Hoffner stopped. Somewhere above, someone was taking a nice beating; higher still, an old woman laughed or cried: even at this hour, the sounds of muted desperation trickled down. Hoffner put up a hand. Fichte stayed where he was, and Hoffner took two steps down to listen.
He heard it almost at once, its incongruity drawing him farther down the steps: a faint if high-pitched squeal was repeating in perfect intervals as it grew more distant. It was too even, too precise, and therefore completely out of place inside these walls. Hoffner suddenly realized what it was. He was following the rotation of a rusted wheel. An image popped into his head. The trunk was being moved on a porter’s wheel, the sort to be found at any train station. The marks at the sites had not been formed by the dragging of a trunk, but by a wheel pressing down into the mud. The weight of the bodies had simply flattened and thus widened its imprint.
Hoffner continued to listen. This was the sound of Wouters transporting his final victim. With a quick wave for Fichte, Hoffner started down.
The lower reaches of the tenement spread out in a warren of narrow corridors, bare bulbs dotting the walls, only here they were placed too far apart to create continuous light. Checkerboard patches led off in all directions. The infamous pit rooms-where pipes and coal stoves bristled with heat, and where only the most wretched took refuge-appeared at equally disjointed intervals. Half of the doors had gone missing for firewood. The rest clung to rotting hinges, or leaned out menacingly into the corridors, but they did nothing to keep the swelter from infiltrating. The air here was oppressive. Hoffner felt the perspiration forming in the creases of his neck as he heard Fichte begin to labor for breath.
The squeal called to them from one of the corridors, and Hoffner, his pistol held chest-high, moved toward it at an even pace, following the twists and turns, just fast enough to draw them closer to their man. He could feel Wouters’s presence, the sound of his footsteps slowly growing more distinct. Wouters was moving rhythmically, easily, uninterrupted-no idea that he was being followed. For the second time in a matter of days, Hoffner felt the sharp pull of anticipation.
And then, without warning, Fichte let go with a choked gasp. Dumbstruck, Hoffner turned to silence him, but it was too late. Fichte was doing all he could to stifle the seizing in his lungs. It was as if his throat had collapsed in on itself.
Hoffner turned back to the empty corridor. The squeal had stopped. Silence, and then a sudden crash and the sound of darting feet. Hoffner looked back at Fichte. The boy was on his knee, sucking desperately on his inhaler.
Hoffner ran, forcing himself to move faster, his hand sliding along the chipped walls as he propelled himself forward. Wouters’s steps were faint, but they were there. Taking a turn, Hoffner nearly fell over the abandoned trunk. It lay on its side and was blocking most of the corridor. For an instant he imagined what lay inside; putting it from his mind, he clambered over the wood and metal-still slick from the rain-and continued after Wouters.
Whether it was the nights out in the cold, or the sudden heat, or simply his own incapacity, Hoffner felt himself giving way. He strained for breath. He felt the stress in his legs and chest, his throat ready to explode, and still he pushed himself on. Wouters was disappearing into the endless corridors. He was slipping out of Hoffner’s hands, and all Hoffner felt was his own desperate failure. All of this would start again. All of it. And there would be nothing he could do to stop it.
A single shot rang out, and Hoffner froze. He planted his hand against the wall for support, and tried to quiet his breathing long enough to locate its origin. A second shot was fired, and Hoffner began to move. The echo hung in the air and led him first left, then along a corridor until he saw a shadow move beyond the open door of one of the pit rooms. He tightened his grip on his pistol, drew up to the door and, bracing himself, shouldered his way in.
What he saw was mind-numbing. A small body lay perfectly still in the half-light. Hoffner recognized it at once. It was Wouters. He was dead. A single bullet had entered his left thigh. Another had cut deep into his chest. He looked remarkably peaceful.
A board moved from across the room and, no less dazed, Hoffner looked over to see Kommissar Ernst Tamshik crouched down, rummaging through scrap wood.
“No body,” said Tamshik as he got to his feet.
Hoffner was still catching his breath as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “What are you doing here?” he said in a near whisper.
“He’s not much to look at, is he?” This was a different Tamshik, one intent on police work. The bullying and sneers were nowhere in sight. “All this trouble for so little a man. Remarkable.”
Hoffner finally caught his breath. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.
Tamshik continued to scan the room. “Looking for a body, Kommissar.”
Hoffner tried to focus. Instinctively he pointed back to the corridor, toward the trunk, but stopped himself. “How did you know he would be coming down here?”
Tamshik peered over at Hoffner. “You didn’t think you’d be the only one to find a way inside his head, did you Kommissar?” The smirk returned. “Typical Kripo arrogance.”
Hoffner’s mind was spinning. A minute ago, he had thought he had lost Wouters. Now he had the man’s carcass in front of him, compliments of the Polpo. Hoffner was hard-pressed to say which was making him feel worse.
“You shot him?” said Hoffner, still trying to clear his mind.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tamshik holstered his gun. “Because I thought he would get away, Kommissar.”
Again, Hoffner glanced out at the corridor. That made no sense. He thought out loud. “I was behind him. You must have been directly in his path. There was nowhere else for him to go. Except in here.” Hoffner again looked across at Tamshik. It suddenly struck him that Tamshik had shown no surprise at his own appearance. It was as if Tamshik had been waiting for him. Things suddenly began to come clearer. Hoffner’s mind slowed. “Unless you thought he’d overpower you, Kommissar?” Hoffner’s tone sharpened. “A man of his tremendous size. Is that it?”
Tamshik stared blankly. “He was a maniac. I didn’t know what to expect.”
Hoffner returned the stare. “And the shot to his thigh wasn’t enough to stop him?”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe what you like.”
“You were waiting for him, weren’t you?”
For just an instant, Tamshik’s eyes narrowed. “The man’s dead, Kommissar. You have a strange way of thanking someone for doing your job.”
Hoffner felt a sudden urge to step over and crack a fist across Tamshik’s face. Luckily, Fichte poked his head through the doorway at that moment. Hoffner could hear the wheezing in his breath.
“I heard shots,” said Fichte, catching his breath. He noticed Wouters. “Oh, God.” Fichte laughed nervously through his gasps. “You got him. Good Christ. We got him.”
“Yes, Herr Assistent,” said Tamshik from the far corner. “You got him.”
It was only then that Fichte saw Tamshik. He nearly jumped. “Kommissar Tamshik? What. .?” Fichte looked to Hoffner for an answer.
“Your Kriminal-Kommissar has gotten his man,” said Tamshik with mock admiration.
This only seemed to rattle Fichte further. “Yes,” he said uneasily.
Hoffner kept his eyes on Tamshik. “I shot no one, Hans.”
Tamshik said, “It’s a proud day for the Kripo, gentlemen.”
“‘A proud. .?’” murmured Fichte. Again, he looked to Hoffner. “I don’t understand.”
Tamshik spoke to Hoffner: “Think of all the money and time saved, Kommissar. No need for a trial. No reason to parade out your madman. And all because of your heroics. Well done.”
Hoffner had no idea what game Tamshik was playing. “Who were you pulling the trigger for, Tamshik? You’re not this clever. Who sent you down here?”
“Don’t worry, Kommissar,” said Tamshik with his accustomed venom. “This one’s all yours. No one needs to know about all the help you’ve gotten from the Polpo.”
Hoffner had heard enough. He started for Tamshik, but Fichte, still not knowing what was going on, had the good sense to hold him back. “He’s not worth the trouble, Nikolai,” he said in a whisper.
Slowly, Tamshik drew up to them. “Your case is closed, Herr Kommissar. Congratulations.” Hoffner managed to pull his arm free. “I wouldn’t do that,” said Tamshik coldly. He stared a moment longer, then nodded to Fichte. “Assistent.” Tamshik then stepped over Wouters’s body and headed out into the corridor.
When the footsteps had faded, Fichte released Hoffner’s arm. “What the hell just happened in here?” he said.
Hoffner remained motionless. He stared down at the body. Wouters had nothing to tell them, not now. Tamshik had made certain of that. Slowly Hoffner walked to the back of the room and slammed his hand into the wall.
“It is a bit odd.”
Kriminaldirektor Prager sat uncomfortably behind his desk. His skin was still pasty from sleep. Polpo Direktor Weigland sat across from him. It had been nearly twenty years since either of them had seen the Alex this early in the morning.
“I don’t know what he’s so upset about,” said Weigland. He turned to Hoffner, who was standing at the window. “Nikolai. The case is finished. Tomorrow the papers will call you a hero.”
Hoffner continued to stare out. The dull gray of pre-dawn hung over the square like an unwashed towel: it only reminded him of how tired he was. “I’ll ask one more time, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner as he turned to the two men at the desk. “What was Kommissar Tamshik doing in the pit rooms of the Ochsenhof?”
Weigland threw up his hands as he looked across at Prager. “There’s no convincing him, Edmund. This is a gift horse. I don’t see what the problem is.”
“I understand,” said Prager: for the first time he was actually holding his own with the Polpo. “Kommissar Tamshik obviously had his reasons. We’re not interested in Polpo business. But you can understand the Kriminal-Kommissar’s concern.” Prager glanced over at Tamshik. The man stood unnervingly still. Fichte, by comparison, looked almost pitiful by his side. “That said,” Prager continued, “I think we can all take satisfaction in having eliminated this problem.”
Hoffner started in. “That’s not the point, Herr Kriminaldirektor-”
Prager put up a hand. “The bodies are here. They’ll be here tomorrow. Whatever else can wait until then.”
Hoffner disagreed. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“You’re tired, Kriminal-Kommissar.” Prager was telling him, not consoling him. “You should take tomorrow at home. With your family. Take two days. The rest can wait.”
Hoffner stared across at Prager. There were any number of things he thought to say, but his mind was a jumble. Exhaustion was getting the better of him. More than that, he knew Prager was right. This wasn’t the time, nor the audience to press things any further. “Fine, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”
“Good,” said Weigland, his relief all too apparent.
Hoffner said, “Just so long as no one touches anything. Nothing happens until I see the bodies.”
“Of course,” Weigland said eagerly. “Naturally.” He wanted this done. “Everything stays exactly as it is tonight. No question.”
Hoffner ignored Weigland. He kept his eyes on Prager.
Prager said, “It’s still your case, Kriminal-Kommissar. Nothing gets touched.”
Hoffner nodded. He then looked over at Tamshik. “And I want that man nowhere near my evidence.”
Tamshik stared straight ahead as if he had heard nothing. Weigland spun back to Prager.
“Edmund, really!” Weigland’s exasperation had returned. “That tone was completely uncalled for.”
Hoffner said, “I think we’re beyond protocol, Herr Direktor.”
“We’re done here, Nikolai,” said Prager, ending any further discussion. Hoffner had overstepped the line. “You did well with this. Take your two days.” He glanced over at Fichte. “You as well, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.”
Fichte perked up. He blinked quickly several times. “Thank you, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”
There was nothing else to be said. The room became uncomfortably still. Finally, Hoffner picked up his hat and started toward the door. Fichte moved to join him, but Hoffner continued past him. “You get home safe, Hans, all right?” Fichte had hoped for more. Hoffner, however, was not in the mood.
Out on the Alex, Hoffner pulled up his coat collar. The air felt somehow kinder; it was of little comfort. Wouters’s eyes were still with him, their silence like a last stroke of the knife.
Hoffner peered up into the first light. Small specks of snow were swirling overhead. Odd, he thought. By nightfall, Berlin would be under a blanket of white.