Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

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 tudewhen 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.

THE MASTER DRAFT

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 Tageblatthad 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 tudeswere 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-KommissarHoffner!” 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 KommissarWalther 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 KommissarHermannsohn 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 Tageblattand the Morgenposton 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 DirektorGerhard 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. “ KommissarNikolai Hoffner, may I present the Directors of FirmaGanz-Neurath. Herren Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf”-Weigland motioned with his arm-“ KommissarHoffner.”