Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

The one place where she had made a mark was next to the word “conscious”-no exclamation point, nothing to explain, just a simple dash to draw her eye each time she turned to the page. She had been fully aware of her own isolation and had kept it hidden away. Evidently, even K had not been privy to it.

There was something powerfully real about this single page. It gave no greater insight to the source of her solitude, but it made her far more human. Perhaps better than most, Hoffner understood her plea.

He caught sight of his watch, and nearly blanched when he saw the time. It was quarter to two. He had been with her for over five hours and had let the time slip by. K had brought him back for her theories and ramblings, but it was only here at the end that Hoffner had found something he could understand. This Rosa was far more compelling than he had imagined.

Nonetheless, she would have to wait: he needed to get in touch with the wire room. Looking around for something to hold the papers, Hoffner spotted a bag that was tucked in between the chair and desk. Evidently K had thought of everything. Hoffner shuffled the diaries and papers into a single stack and slid them in. He repositioned the chair and picked up the Mrike. He was about to place it back behind the row when he stopped. He stared at the weathered cover.

Oh, world, let me be, he thought.

He slipped the book into his pocket and headed for the door.

Downstairs, a strident “Yes” greeted his knocking. Hoffner spoke up and the door opened instantly: the woman’s smile seemed to grow broader with each subsequent unveiling.

“Madame,” said Hoffner. “I was hoping I might use your telephone.”

At once, she stepped back. “Of course, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.Please.”

The woman brought him into her sitting room, which was the same layout as upstairs, although Rosa had shown better taste when it had come to the furnishings. This was a mishmash of styles. Hoffner wondered how many departing tenants had arrived at their new homes only to discover a missing chair or table. No doubt a few of Rosa’s things would soon be relocating a few flights south.

Hoffner put in the call; the woman retreated through a swinging door to give him his privacy.

The wire room had received nothing. According to the new boy, little Franz had not been back since this morning. Herr Kriminal-BezirkssekretrGroener, on the other hand, had passed by several times to ask Sascha what he was waiting for. Hoffner told the boy to ignore Groener and to remain by his post.

Hoffner hung up just as the woman was returning with a tray of food. Hoffner said, “Very kind of you, Madame, but I really must. .” The look of disappointment on her face bordered on the tragic. “Well, maybe just a sausage.”

She brightened up at once and placed the tray on a nearby table. She then sat and waited for Hoffner to join her: evidently, this was going to be a formal sitting. Hoffner obliged, and she started to spoon out three short, wrinkled pieces of meat from a can and onto a plate for him. When she was done, she poured out a glass of something pale yellow. Hoffner thought it better not to ask.

He took a spoonful and slid the first of the pieces into his mouth. It was army surplus, probably two months old, and had a leathery texture that tasted liked dried tobacco. Hoffner smiled and swallowed. The woman beamed. She was very proud of her husband’s scavenging, and probably had no idea that she was feeding contraband to a police officer. “You knew Frau Luxemburg well?” he said.

The woman watched him with a mother’s joy as he ate. “As well as any of the tenants.”

“You knew her friends?”

Her lips puckered at the thought of them. “No. I didn’t know any of those people.” The word “those” carried a particularly sneering tone.

“Gentleman friends?” He shoveled a second piece of the meat into his mouth, and did his best to swallow it whole. “One reads the papers, hears things.”

The woman gave a tight smile. “I don’t interest myself in such things.”

Really, thought Hoffner. He had noticed several of the more notorious papers-the popular rags-in a rack by the sofa when he had been on the phone. He now looked over again and scanned them for their dates: all late December. It had been about that time that most of the papers had begun to chronicle the seedier side of Rosa’s life, all of it, no doubt, with lies meant to discredit her: “Judah is reaching out for the crown!” “We are ruled by Levi and the devil Luxemburg!” had been the most popular slogans around town. Hoffner knew there was only one reason his hostess would have saved them.

The woman saw where he was looking. For a moment she looked as if she had been caught. Then, just as quickly, the tight smile returned. “I don’t read them. They’re-my husband’s. As I said, I don’t look at such trash.”

Hoffner smiled with her. “Even if you might have been the one to give them the information for their stories.”

The woman’s face went white. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar! I would never-”

Hoffner raised a pacifying hand. “I don’t really care, Madame. I hope they paid you well. But I would hate to flip through one of those rags and find the mention of one of Frau Luxemburg’s special friends. Say, a bearded man who might have had keys to the flat?” The woman’s eyes went wide as she listened. Her entire body stiffened as she tried to find a response. “So there was someone?” said Hoffner. He turned his attention to the last piece of meat; he was trying to scoop it up, but was having trouble getting it onto his spoon. The woman’s eyes darted nervously as she followed his progress. When Hoffner finally landed it, he looked back at her. “There was someone?” he repeated. She stared at him; she nodded once. “Did he have a name?” said Hoffner. He popped the meat into his mouth.

The woman’s hand seemed eager for her neck, but she managed to keep it in her lap. “Most of them had beards.” A light desperation had crept into her voice. “They always had beards. Filthy people. They would stream in and out. I never knew which was which.” She suddenly remembered something. “There was an umbrella,” she said. “Yes. An umbrella. The man-her special one-he always carried an umbrella with him.”

An umbrella, thought Hoffner. Very helpful. That simply meant K was no idiot; after all, he was living in Berlin in the winter. “But no name.” She tried to find it, but shook her head. Hoffner nodded and stood. “Well, if you think of it.”

As before, she suddenly brightened up. “He was a Jew,” she said, as if she had just recalled the crucial piece in the puzzle.

The comment should not have surprised Hoffner, but it did. Nonetheless, he showed no reaction. “A Jew,” he said.

“Oh yes.” She was so pleased for remembering. “You can always tell Jews. This man was definitely one of them.”

“I see.” There were any number of things Hoffner thought to say, but he said none of them. Instead he stood quietly until he knew he had no choice but to speak: “Well. I have work to get back to. Thank you for the luncheon, Madame.”

She stood. “Not at all, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.If I can be of any further help.”

Hoffner tried to match her smile. He didn’t really try all that hard.

At first sight, Sint-Walburga was not nearly as chilling as Fichte had thought it would be. Van Acker had taken the scenic route, which, on a clear, sunlit day, gave the asylum the look of a country villa, if only through half-squinting, hungover eyes: Fichte had yet to put anything solid in his stomach-Mueller, of course, had had a full breakfast before taking off-and, except for several tall glasses of water, Fichte had done his best not to stir things up. For some reason, this morning’s flight from Kln had helped to relieve his anguish. The ups and downs and turns of the road out to the asylum, however, were beginning to take their toll: there was a distinct sloshing feeling. Fichte kept his head facing out the window.

Walburga was three stories high, set atop a small hill, and with enough surrounding woods to make it seem almost cozy. Closer in, however, the illusion vanished. The iron bars across each window and doorway came into view as the automobile made its final turn out of the trees. Chips pockmarked the thick walls, and water damage veined the stones in thin green streaks, as if a spider, infected by the disease within, had let loose with its own demented weaving.

Van Acker pulled the car up to the main gate. He beeped his horn once and waited for a guard to saunter across the gravel courtyard. The man fit perfectly into his surroundings: his face was scarred, and his uniform had the same weathered look as the walls. The sight of the gun in his belt was little comfort. He reached the gate and spoke to van Acker through the bars. “No one said you’d be coming up today, Chief Inspector.” His voice was a perfect monotone.

Van Acker nodded dismissively. “No one’s been answering your telephone. I’ve been trying since noon.”

It was difficult to know whether the guard had understood; his expression and posture remained unchanged. Had the eyes not been open, Fichte might have thought the man asleep on his feet.

With a sudden jerk, the guard reached for the lock on the gate. “Yuh,” he said in the same lifeless tone. “Telephone’s out.” He released the chain and slowly walked the gate open. Fichte expected van Acker to pull up by the main door, but he continued around to a small archway off to the right. At some point it might have been the delivery entrance; now it was Walburga’s only access. Fichte noticed several automobiles parked behind the building.

“How’s your French, Detective?” said van Acker in German as the two men stepped up to the doorway. He pulled the cord for the bell.

Hoffner had omitted Fichte’s “in training” status when he told the Belgian who was coming. In fact, he had even given Fichte a promotion, figuring Fichte could use all the help he could get. Back in Bruges, van Acker had been duly impressed by so young a detective inspector. Per Hoffner’s instructions-and given his head this morning-Fichte had kept as quiet as possible during the ride up from town. “It’s all right,” said Fichte without much conviction.

They heard footsteps through the door. Van Acker said, “I’ll translate. Make sure there’s no confusion.”

A second guard opened the door and ushered them into a tiny vestibule. It was lit by a single bulb and was in no better state of repair than the outside walls. A large iron door waited directly across from them. Van Acker was forced to suffer through a repeat performance of the conversation at the gate before being permitted to sign the registry. “Everyone who comes in or goes out,” he said as he handed the pen to Fichte. “Staff and visitors alike.” Fichte finished signing just as the guard was unlocking the iron door that led into the asylum proper. “Don’t be fooled by the surroundings,” said van Acker. “They take this all very seriously.”

The scrape of the bolt in the lock behind them was enough to tell Fichte how seriously Sint-Walburga took its inmates. Van Acker led them down a narrow corridor and into an open hall. It might have been any country house entrance hall-vaulted ceiling, fireplace, chairs and sofas-except that its windows had all been bricked over, leaving it devoid of any natural light. What light there was came from a collection of overworked lamps, placed at odd intervals along the walls, that did little more than create a stark, yellow pall within the space. That, however, was not the hall’s most disconcerting feature. The grand staircase, which still sported remnants of a once-magnificent carpet, was encased in a cage of thick bars that ran along the banisters and up to the second floor. There was barely enough room to squeeze an arm through; even so, they had taken every precaution: a second iron door stood at the bottom of the steps where the banisters met. Shadows from the bars spilled out into the hall and seemed to trap the single guard on duty in his own phantom cage. He gave a perfunctory nod to the two men; he knew they were not heading up.

For Fichte, however, the sounds coming from above made the rest seem almost inviting. At first he thought it was the mewling of dogs; he quickly realized, however, that these were human voices. Some murmured in whispers, others in incoherent wails. The one constant was an unrelenting desperation. One voice suddenly broke through, its anguish enough to prompt Fichte’s own sense of despair. Almost at once, a door bolted shut, and the voice again retreated into the amorphous mass of sound.

“The patients are on the top two floors,” said van Acker, as if relegating them to the upper reaches could in any way mitigate their presence throughout the building. Fichte did his best to nod. “The Superintendent keeps himself down here.”

All but one of the doors off the hall had been barred over. Van Acker led them over to it and knocked once before letting himself in. He told Fichte to wait outside. Fichte agreed, glad to have put some distance between himself and the stairs. He watched as van Acker made his way across the office and began to speak quickly in French to the man seated behind the far desk.

Fichte had lied. He barely understood a word. He could pick out the mannerisms of a greeting, or small talk, but he was completely at sea until he heard van Acker mention the name Wouters. Fichte did, however, recognize the look of confusion on van Acker’s face the moment the Superintendent began to reply. Confusion turned to shock. Fichte needed no French to know that something was wrong.

When the man finished speaking, van Acker slowly turned back to the door. He hesitated and then motioned for Fichte to join them. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said. “Could you join us?”

It took Fichte a moment to remember his “promotion.” He stepped into the office. It was clear that van Acker was on edge: the introductions were brief.

The room fell silent as van Acker seemed unsure what he wanted to say. Finally he turned to Fichte and, almost under his breath, said, “Wouters is dead.” He did nothing to hide his own disbelief and regret. “It seems he hung himself two nights ago.”

Fichte remained surprisingly calm; he let the information settle. He then said, “I’ll need to send a wire.”

Hoffner got lucky. At this hour, most of the city’s cabs were already back in central Berlin, picking their spots for the rush hour. The sky had opened up, and, had it not been for the sudden appearance of a black Tonneau Mercedes dropping off a fare-and his own quick sprint to flag it down-Hoffner would have been left to slog his way through the downpour to the nearest bus stop. Even so, he received a nice dousing of his pants for his efforts. It was an acceptable trade-off: his shoes would have gotten soaked through, anyway. Once safely inside, he thought about a nap, but that was not to be. He was having trouble shaking Luxemburg.

On the edge of downtown, he told the driver to head up toward Friedrichstrasse. The man disagreed. “You want to avoid die Mittethis time of day, mein Herr.Faster if we hook over south of the Hallesches Gate.”

“Just try Friedrichstrasse,” Hoffner said. “All right?”

The man shrugged. “Your time, your money.”

As promised, the traffic slowed once they hit the middle of town. The spray from the wheels of the cars rapped mercilessly at the cab’s windows and repeatedly dissolved the outside world into a swirl of melting pictures. Hoffner rolled down his window when they hit Friedrichstrasse, so as to minimize the distortion. He checked his watch; it was about time for tea. Positioning himself back on the seat so as to avoid the splatter, he peered out.

He spotted her at Schuckert’s, just beyond Leipziger Strasse. She had ducked in under the awning, and was waiting for the worst of it to pass. Her coat was too thin for the weather, and she held her arms across her chest for added warmth.

“Pull over!” shouted Hoffner over the patter of the rain.

The driver turned abruptly for the curb. Several horn squawks accompanied the maneuver. “I told you it would be bad.”

Hoffner paid and hopped out. He placed the papers under his coat and darted over to the restaurant. It was not until he had removed his hat that Lina recognized him. She tried to hide her pleasure in a look of surprise, but her face was not yet sophisticated enough to carry it off. Hoffner shook out his hat as he approached. “I thought it might be you,” he said, deciding to play out the charade.

“Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” said Lina. “What a nice surprise.”

“You look absolutely frozen, Frulein Lina. Let me buy you a coffee.”

She hesitated before answering: “I can’t bring them inside unless I’m selling.” She glanced down at her basket of flowers, then back at Hoffner. “And the tea hour is my best time, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Not in this weather, it isn’t,” he said, before she could find another excuse. He looked over and saw the lone waiter who had been stationed for the outside seating. The man was holding his tray across his chest and staring out at the rain. Heated lamps or not, no one would be stupid enough to sit out today. “Herr Ober,” said Hoffner, calling the man over. Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge. Well trained, the man showed no reaction as Hoffner continued: “This young lady is going to leave her basket out here while we go inside for a coffee. You’ll be good enough to see that nothing happens to it, yes?”

The man gave a swift nod. “Of course, mein Herr.”

“Good.” Hoffner turned to Lina, and motioned her to the door. “Shall we, Frulein?”

Schuckert’s was known for its sweets. The place smelled of raisins and honey, and everything was immaculately white: napkins, tablecloths, even the waiters’ coats. In a lovely old-world touch, the tea silverware was marvelously ornate and heavy, and seemed to overwhelm the small marble tables, each of which was surrounded by a quartet of straight-backed wrought-iron chairs. From the far corner, a violinist played something soothing. Hoffner thought it might have been Mozart, but he could have been wrong.

A plump matre d’ was chatting up one of his customers when he saw Hoffner and Lina come through the door. The man gave an overly gracious bow to the table, and then headed over. It was clear that he recognized Lina; he was kind enough, though, not to mention it. He smiled and extended his hand to the room. “Mein Herr,”he said. “A table for two?”

Hoffner knew that he and Lina were not Schuckert’s usual clientele. Grandmothers and granddaughters sat over hot chocolates and scones; elderly bankers shared a plate of figs-Schuckert’s had just the right sort of connections to keep its pantries full, no matter what the rest of Berlin might be suffering through; and young women, whose husbands would one day be eating those figs, sat with each other and their packages from KaDeWe or Tietz, or wherever else they had spent the day. One or two were tactless enough to stare at Lina as she passed by, but the rest took no notice. It had never occurred to Hoffner: people could think what they liked. But if Lina was bothered by their looks, she showed none of it. She walked past them with an air of seamless ease. Hoffner felt mildly foolish for having put her through it.

They reached the table and sat. Hoffner helped her out of her coat, and she let the collar fall back across the chair. He noticed that the rain had gotten through to her dress. The wet fabric clung tightly to her thighs. They were long and wonderfully slim, and the cloth was nestling deep within the perfect triangle between them. Without acknowledging his stare, Lina aired out the skirt of her dress and then placed her napkin on her lap. Hoffner looked up to see her peering over at him with a knowing smile. He liked the feeling of having been caught. “Let’s find a waiter,” he said, and turned to the room.

A man approached from the other direction; Hoffner failed to see him.

“Et voil,”said Lina. Hoffner turned to see a waiter holding out two menus. Lina was not one to wait. She said ecstatically, “I’m going to have a hot chocolate.”

Hoffner declined his menu, as well. “Coffee for me.”

The man was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Lina leaned in closer and spoke in a soft, low whisper. “He’s asked me to the cinema twice. Must be strange to take my order, don’t you think?”

Hoffner felt the excitement in her breath, as if telling him had somehow made her more attractive: it had, of course. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. “Must be.” It was Kvatsch’s pack, a nice impressive brand. Hoffner lit one up. “Well, this was lucky,” he said.

“Yes. It was.” She continued to stare at him.

There was something thrilling in not knowing if he was being overmatched. Hoffner said, “I was meaning to send you a note about Hans, but I didn’t have your address.”

“No. You wouldn’t have.”

“Just in case you were wondering where he might have gotten to.”

“Just in case.”

Hoffner looked at the girl. He liked the way her eyes widened almost imperceptibly each time she spoke. He liked the slenderness of her shoulders, and the smallness of her breasts. Most of all, he liked how she continued to bait him. “He’s out of the country for a day or two,” he said. “On an investigation.”

“How very exciting for him.”

Hoffner took a drag on his cigarette; he was enjoying this more than she knew, or, perhaps, as much as she was permitting. He had yet to figure out which.

“In Bruges,” she said. “Yes. Hans managed to get a note to my flat before he left. But thank you for thinking of me, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Not at all, Frulein.” The drinks arrived.

Lina spooned up a dollop of the cream with her little finger and slipped it into her mouth. There was nothing sexual in it; she was simply too impatient to reach for her spoon. Her eyes slowly closed. “Heaven,” she said with delight. The waiter was gone by the time she opened them, and she peered over at Hoffner. He marveled at how her smile gave nothing away. She slid the cup toward him. “Have some. Please.”

Hoffner took his spoon and sampled the cream. He nodded. “Very nice.”

She took her own spoon and, leaning toward the cup, delicately dug through for some of the chocolate. Hoffner watched as she deftly tried to bring the liquid up along the side of the cup so as not to disturb the cream. She seemed so intent on the task. It was then that he noticed the half-blackened nail on her right hand; she had bruised it somehow, most likely from a slamming door, or a fall on the ice. She had done nothing to hide it. Hoffner kept his eyes on the nail as she raised the spoon to her lips. She blew gently, then sipped it down. Wincing a moment at the heat, she quickly recovered and went in for a second spoonful.

Hoffner said, “It’s best if you mix it with the cream. Less bitter.”

Lina kept her eyes on the spoon and cup. “I like it this way,” she said. “At least at the start.” Hoffner took a sip of the coffee. It was the first good cup he had had in weeks. Lina looked over at him and said, “Would you like my address?”

It was rare for Hoffner to be caught out like this, but here it was. He felt something sharp run through his chest. It moved up to his throat and made his mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t felt it in years. It was anticipation. He slowly placed his coffee back on the table. Out of necessity, he said, “Is that such a good idea, Frulein?”

She spoke with certainty: “You came to find me. Didn’t you?”

When he had no choice but to answer, Hoffner said, “I’ve been wondering if you make enough to survive, selling flowers and matches.”

For the first time, he saw the smallest slip in her otherwise perfect stare. Just as quickly, she recovered. “Have you?” She placed the spoon in the cup and began to fold the cream into the chocolate. “I do all right. I’ve started modeling. For an artist.”

Hoffner watched as the liquid became silky brown. Lina was merciless with even the smallest floating fleck of cream. She seemed to take a wicked pleasure in drowning each of them to oblivion.

“How very exciting for you,” he said. He retrieved his cigarette, took a few puffs, and crushed it out. Digging the last of the butt into the ashtray, he said, “Yes.” He let go of the cigarette and looked at her. “I did.”

Again, her cheeks flushed, although she was too good to let it take hold. She stopped mixing and placed the spoon to the side. “I’m glad.” Taking her cup in both hands, she brought it up to her lips. She was about to take a sip, when she stopped and peered over at him. “I wouldn’t want anything to change with me and Hans,” she said. “A chance to leave my basket behind. You understand that.” She took the sip.

Hoffner suddenly remembered how young she really was. He doubted Lina realized it, but in that moment she had shown herself at her most vulnerable. She might just as well have said, “I’m not expecting anything, so don’t feel you have to give anything.” Or, perhaps, it was just what he had wanted to hear.

Hoffner watched as she placed the cup on the table. He slowly reached over for her hand. It might have been an awkward movement, but the two came together too easily, and he ran his thumb gently over her palm. Just as easily, he let go. “Thank you for the lovely time, Frulein Lina.” He picked up the pack of cigarettes and placed them in his pocket.

“Yes,” she said warmly. She then said, “Kremmener Strasse. Number five.”

Hoffner waited a moment. He nodded and, somewhere, he thought he heard Victor Knig laughing. He found a few coins in his pocket and placed them on the table. He then took his hat and stood. “A pleasure, Frulein.”

“As always, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner tipped his brow and headed for the door.

Back at the Alex, the security desk was under frontal assault from a group of irate Hausfrauenwhen Hoffner walked in: something to do with a pickpocket, from what he could make out. Hoffner decided to avoid the commotion and instead started for the wire room, when the duty officer put up a hand and shouted over:

“Kriminal-Kommissar.”Hoffner stopped. “Your Sascha’s been looking for you.”

Hoffner was momentarily confused. Why would his son have come to the Alex? “Sascha’s been by?” he said. Hoffner immediately thought of Georgi.

The man had no time for games. “Yes. Sascha. He’s asked for you twice.” Before Hoffner could answer, the women were once again on the attack.

Only then did Hoffner realize which Sascha the man had been referring to: “Sascha the runner,” Hoffner said aloud to no one in particular. He shook his head. He needed to concentrate, no matter what might, or might not, be happening later tonight: Knig’s laughter seemed to be growing louder by the minute. Hoffner stepped through to the courtyard.

Kripo Sascha was sitting on the ground, reading outside the wire room, when Hoffner pushed through and into the corridor. At once the boy stood. He took a folded sheet from inside the book and held it out to Hoffner.

Hoffner took the note and said, “So, when did it come in?”

“Just over an hour ago, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” The boy spoke with great precision.

“And no one else has seen it?”

Sascha looked almost hurt by the question. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.No one.”

“Good.” Hoffner crooked his head to the side so as to take a look at the book in the boy’s hand. The Count of Monte Cristo.Hoffner was liking this boy more and more. “Planning an escape,” Hoffner said with a smile.

For the first time, Sascha let his shoulders drop. He smiled, and shook his head. “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner pulled a coin from his pocket and, taking Sascha’s hand, placed it in the boy’s open palm. “Our secret.” Before Sascha could say a word, Hoffner was nodding him down the corridor.

Hoffner’s mood changed the moment he started reading: WOUTERS DEAD STOP HANGED HIMSELF TWO DAYS AGO STOP STRANGE BEHAVIOR AS OF FIVE MONTHS AGO STOP NO BATHING CUTTING HAIR STOP PUT IN ISOLATION THREE MONTHS AGO STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS STOP

Hoffner read the note several times to make sure he had missed nothing. “No bathing, cutting hair.” He stepped into the wire room.

The man behind the desk was just finishing off a wire. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he said without looking up. “You’ve something for me to send?”

“A reply,” said Hoffner; he handed the original to the man.

The man examined it. “To Bruges?”

“Yes.”

The man took out a pen and paper. “Go ahead.”

“Two words,” said Hoffner. “‘Shave him.’”