Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

This time Braun’s mea culpa seemed more contrived. Fichte returned a bland smile and took another sip.

Braun said, “You’re quite devoted to your Herr Hoffner, aren’t you?”

The tone of the conversation had shifted, and Fichte was strangely aware of it. He knew that Braun was hinting at something. Even so, Fichte took his time. He placed his glass on the table and said, “He was my Kriminal-Kommissar,and he remains my partner. I’ve learned a great deal working with him.” He looked across at Braun. “He also happens to be a brilliant detective.”

“Your loyalty is admirable.”

“Thank you.”

“If a bit nave.”

This time the word more than pricked. Fichte was not terribly good at hiding his resentment, especially with a few drinks in him. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Braun was more direct. “We don’t like letting the good ones get away, Hans. And we’re very persistent.”

Fichte waited. “Why nave?”

“Herr Hoffner is an excellent detective. No question about that.”

“And yet you don’t let the good ones get away.”

“We don’t. But you have to understand that it’s more than just detective work up on the fourth floor. It’s a man’s character, his past. Herr Hoffner. . well, he comes up a bit short on both counts.”

Fichte was amazed at Braun’s candor. “We’re talking about my partner, Herr Braun.”

“Yes,” said Braun unapologetically. “I know.”

Fichte felt suddenly ashamed for having let it get this far. There was something decidedly petty in Braun’s style. Fichte reached for his glass and downed the whiskey. It was a mistake. He instantly felt the effects. “It’s been a pleasure, Herr Braun. Thank you for the drinks.” He started to get up.

Braun said calmly, “He’s fucking your girl, Hans. Not much character in that.”

Fichte stared across the table. He was certain he had misheard. “Excuse me?”

“Your girl,” said Braun no less directly. “Lina. Herr Hoffner’s been screwing her ever since your little trip to Belgium, or didn’t you know that? There’s your Kripo, Hans. There’s your loyalty.”

Fichte felt his legs begin to slip out from under him; luckily, he was still only a few centimeters above the banquette. It did nothing to help the sudden throbbing in the back of his head. Fichte wanted to answer, make a joke, but he was swimming in booze, drowning under the image of Hoffner with Lina. He felt his neck constrict, his lungs tighten, and he began to gasp for breath. He thought Braun was saying something, reaching out a hand, but he could hardly see him. Fichte fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler. He took in a long, deep suck and his lungs began to open; he could breathe again. He felt himself standing. Not sure what was coming out, he said, “Thank you for the drinks, Herr Oberkommissar.” He tried to regain his focus. “You’ll excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, Fichte made his way for the front doors. His head was clearing, but his face felt as if it were on fire. He needed cold air, anything to be away from this noise and the crush of bodies. He began to push his way through the crowd, when he saw little Elise, Lina’s roommate, standing alone inside the coat-check room. The sight of her was like another crack to his skull. Fichte barreled his way over.

Her expression soured the instant she saw him. “Ticket, sir,” she said sharply,

Fichte steadied himself on the counter. “Is she fucking someone?” he said loudly.

Elise looked past him, afraid that someone might have heard. “Keep your voice down, Hans.”

Fichte was no less insistent in a whisper. “Is she fucking my partner?”

It was clear that Elise had been waiting weeks to hear the question. She now took her time in answering. “What do you care?” she said in a hushed, nasty tone. “You’ve been screwing everything that walks through that door in the last month. Serves you right.”

Fichte held himself rigidly at the counter. He wanted to reach over and slap her to the ground. With a sudden jab, he thrust his hand into his pocket. He saw her flinch, and he laughed sloppily. He then pulled out his ticket and tossed it on the counter. His words were growing more slurred. “My coat, you fucking bitch.”

Elise had shown all the fight she had. She backed away slowly and turned to the rack. She laid the coat on the counter and again stepped away.

Fichte teetered momentarily. He tasted a dry sourness in his throat. “Bitch,” he said. He then grabbed his coat and headed for the doors.

AS BRITTLE AS PAPER

Sometimes you need a bit of good fortune, and today it was Hoffner’s turn.

A cable had arrived in the morning from Belgium: van Acker had come up with a name for the substitute Wouters. He was a Konrad Urlicher, a German from Bonn. Strangely enough, it was Urlicher’s anatomy that had been the key to his identity. During the autopsy of the body, the doctors had discovered that Urlicher had suffered from a rare bone disease. This discovery might have meant nothing had there not also been indications that Urlicher had been treated for the disease using somewhat innovative if experimental techniques: something to do with marrow extracts. The upshot was that only a handful of clinics in Europe had been using the new techniques. Photographs of the man had been sent out to each of them. Within a week, Urlicher’s name had come back.

What was more startling was that Urlicher had not been insane. He had simply been dying. Who better, then, thought Hoffner, to take the place of a madman? Van Acker had sent along as much information as he could on Urlicher-and his stay at Bonn’s Fritsch Clinic-including background, family, and recent past. He had also included the names of those who had visited Urlicher while he had been hospitalized, and it was there that Hoffner had turned up gold.

Two names appeared on both the Sint-Walburga and clinic sheets: a Joachim Manstein and an Erich Oster. Both men had visited Urlicher one week before his disappearance from the Bonn clinic in October of 1918, and again two days before he had killed himself at Sint-Walburga in January of 1919. Hoffner had also discovered that Manstein had made a solo trip to the asylum in June of 1918, some six months before the suicide, and it was the tracking of that first visit that had brought the picture into focus.

Whatever these men had had in mind, their plan had been initiated as of June 1918. It was at that time, according to the doctors at Sint-Walburga, that the real Wouters had begun to let himself go: no bathing, no cutting of the hair. It was clear now that the purpose of Manstein’s first visit in June had been to prepare Wouters for the switch to come in October. By then Wouters would be unrecognizable, allowing for a reasonable facsimile-long hair, etc.-to take his place. The visit to the Bonn clinic in October had been to alert Urlicher that the switch was coming. And the last visit to Sint-Walburga in January had been to give Urlicher his final orders. That he had wrapped a rope around his neck was proof enough that Urlicher had been willing to follow them to the letter.

The precision of the operation-and it was an operation, in Hoffner’s mind-led him to conclude that the military connection extended beyond the Ascomycete 4. That Manstein and Oster had been able to cross into Belgium on two separate occasions during the war-one to prepare Wouters, the other to make the switch-could have been possible only with military credentials. A single man without papers might have been able to slip across the border. Three men-one of them looking like a raving lunatic-would not.

With the names in hand, Hoffner now knew where to start digging: the Office of the General Staff.

Fichte, of course, had yet to appear this morning. These late arrivals were becoming irritatingly commonplace. Hoffner was about to write him a note when there was a knock at the door. He looked up to see Polpo DirektorGerhard Weigland standing in the hall.

“Busy, Nikolai?” Hoffner’s mistrust must have registered on his face. “Just to talk,” said Weigland. “If you have a minute?”

Hoffner placed the pages in a drawer and motioned Weigland to take a seat. “Of course, Herr Direktor.”

Weigland glanced around the office and then sat. “As organized as ever.” Hoffner remained silent. “A chief inspector should have a bigger place, don’t you think?”

“This suits me fine, Herr Direktor.”

“Yes,” said Weigland. “I imagine it does.” He shifted tone. “Nice bit of press for you and young Fichte. Quite the heroes, these days.”

“The press believes what it wants to believe, Herr Direktor.”

“Does it?” Weigland nodded knowingly. “So, no heroes, then?”

“You’d do better to ask Fichte about that, Herr Direktor.I’m sure you see more of him than I do.”

Weigland ignored the jab. “The boy has ambition. Not such a bad thing.”

Hoffner cut to it. “What is it that I can do for you, Herr Direktor?”

Weigland nodded knowingly. “No time for chitchat. Of course. All those murders to get to.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver medallion that hung on a ribbon. He placed it on the desk. “I’ve had this for a good many years. It was your father’s.”

Hoffner barely moved as he glanced down at the small pendant. He looked across at Weigland and said coldly, “It’s very nice. Was there anything else, Herr Direktor?”

“It’s meant for you, Nikolai.”

Hoffner nodded to himself. “And is there a reason it’s coming to me now?”

Weigland reached for the pendant and flipped it over. “There’s an inscription.” He read: “‘Third Highest Marks, Political Police Entrance Examination, Martin Hoffner, 1877.’ Your father gave it to me.” Weigland stared a moment longer at the silver finish. “He didn’t want it after all that business.” Weigland set it down and looked across at Hoffner. “It was a long time ago. I thought you might want it.”

There was never any subtlety with Weigland: no doubt someone had been standing by the wire room, Weigland now aware that the lines between Berlin and Bruges were still very much open. It was a further reminder for Hoffner not to step where he wasn’t welcome. “You’ve been waiting for the right moment, is that it, Herr Direktor?”

Weigland looked as if he might reply with equal callousness; instead he said, “I just thought you might want it. A medal for a hero. Silly, I suppose. But then one can’t always be a hero. Best to make the most of it while you can.” Subtlety, thought Hoffner. Always subtlety. Weigland stood. “Well. . please pass on my congratulations to Kriminal-BezirkssekretrFichte. When you see him.”

Hoffner stood. The two men exchanged a nod and Weigland moved to the corridor. He was at the door when he turned back and said, “I imagine it’s time for a new map, Nikolai. Keep to what you do best.” Weigland waited a moment and then headed out.

Hoffner listened for the footfalls to recede before he sat and reached across the desk for the medal. It was a cheap little thing, silver plate, something to be won at any school outing. Hoffner read the inscription: the lettering had blackened over the years.

He found himself staring at the date. His father had been a young man then, and ambitious. Hoffner could hardly imagine it. It was not the man he had ever known: Weigland had seen to that. For a moment Hoffner felt his father’s bitterness as his own. He tossed the thing onto the papers and slammed the drawer shut.

Regimental Affairs was a relatively small office on the third floor of the General Staff building. None of its occupants looked up as Hoffner stepped inside: a distinguished-looking major sat at the far end-beyond a waist-high partition that ran the width of the room-his desk piled high with thick volumes; four lieutenants, also at desks and just this side of the partition, were leafing through mysterious reams of paper; and a young clerk-his coat off, his rank another mystery-sat closest to the door and was typing up the pages as they came down the line. The walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, each filled with tall brown volumes with dates and regiment numbers etched across their spines. It might have been a university reading room-the air had that musty, academic smell to it-if not for the ramrod-straight backs of the men: these were soldiers, not scholars.

Hoffner pulled out his badge and said to the clerk, “I need a word with your Herr Major.”

The boy looked up. “May I ask what business the Herr Chief Inspector has with the Herr Major?”

“Personnel.”

The boy stood and moved briskly through the swinging half-door to the other side of the partition. Hoffner watched as the boy waited for the Herr Major to acknowledge him. The two exchanged a few words, and the clerk returned. “The Herr Major wishes to inform the Herr Chief Inspector that the Personnel Office is located-”

“On the third floor,” Hoffner cut in. “Yes. I’ve just had the pleasure of your Captain Strasser’s assistance. I’m not interested in the personnel of the General Staff. I’m looking for specific regimental members.”

Again the clerk made his way back. This time the Herr Major looked up and gazed out at Hoffner. Half a minute later, Hoffner was seated in front of his desk.

“This is a criminal investigation, yes, Herr Inspector?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

The man showed no reaction. “All investigations of personnel, criminal or not, are handled internally, Herr Inspector. I don’t think we can be of any help to you.”

Hoffner wondered if men like this ever got tired of giving the same answer. “We’re interested in this man after his service, Herr Major. When he was a civilian. We’re simply trying to track him down. We don’t consider this a military affair.”

The Herr Major answered coolly. “Then I fail to see why you are troubling us with your investigation.”

“He’s not your responsibility, Herr Major. This happened after he was discharged.”

“So, again, I fail to see why you are troubling us.”

This, thought Hoffner, was why the war had been lost. “Our dossier is incomplete, Herr Major. Any information would be most helpful. However, I wouldn’t want to tax the General Staff beyond its limits. Perhaps the Polpo might be a better place for me to begin?” Hoffner began to get up. “Thank you for your time, Herr Major.”

This was not the first time the man had played at this game. He said calmly, “Have a seat, Herr Inspector.” He waited until he had Hoffner’s full attention. “The General Staff is, of course, eager to do what it can in the aid of a political case.”

It was remarkable to see the effects of one little word, thought Hoffner. Even the high walls of army insularity buckled at the prospect of the political police. “I didn’t say it was a political case, Herr Major.”

“No, of course not,” the man answered. “You have a regiment number, Herr Inspector?”

“No.” Somewhere behind the eyes, Hoffner saw a look of mild surprise.

“Of course you know a name will be of no help,” said the Herr Major. “We file everything according to regiment number. It would be impossible to wade through over a thousand volumes in search of a particular name.”

Hoffner-of course-did not know this. He nodded anyway and, thinking as he spoke, opted for the only other detail he had. “But you do list discharges by date, isn’t that right, Herr Major?”

“Those volumes are kept in a separate office, yes.”

Again Hoffner nodded, so as to give himself time to calculate. Van Acker had placed Urlicher’s arrival at the Bonn clinic in the third week of March 1918. Figuring on time for dismissal, transportation. . “March seventh, 1918.” Hoffner spoke as if he were reading the date from a file. “The name is Urlicher. Konrad Urlicher.”

The information was written down and the clerk called over. The Herr Major then went back to his books, and fifteen minutes later the clerk returned with two large volumes. Hoffner had been spending his time alternating between counting the number of books on various shelves and the number of times the Herr Major blinked in any given minute. The books had won out eight to one.

The clerk handed the first of the volumes to the Herr Major and said, “It was the fifth of March, Herr Major. I checked four days in either direction.”

The boy had marked a page two-thirds of the way through. The Herr Major scanned it as he answered indifferently, “Well done, Corporal.” He found the name, flipped the book around to Hoffner, and pointed to a line on the page. It read:

Urlicher, Konrad. First Lieutenant. Anemia and Osteitis Deformans. Unsuitable for service.

Hoffner, however, was more interested in the further annotation:

14th Bavarian, Liebregiment.

Keeping his eye on the page, Hoffner said, “The Fourteenth Bavarian is recruited out of Munich, yes, Herr Major?” It was a reasonable-enough guess. Hoffner was still recovering from the gambit with the discharge date.

The Herr Major turned to the clerk, but the boy was one step ahead of him. The boy produced the second volume, his finger wedged between two pages. He opened it and handed the book to the Herr Major.

Once again the Herr Major glanced down the page. “Yes, Herr Inspector,” he said without so much as a nod for his clerk. “Munich recruits.” With a twitch of his fingers, he dismissed the boy.

Hoffner said, “May I, Herr Major?”

It was the Division Lists, broken down into regiments, battalions, and units, the last of which were alphabetized. Urlicher had been a member of the Liebregiment,Second Battalion, First Unit. Several lines above his name was an entry for a Second Lieutenant Erich Oster. Joachim Manstein, however, was not to be found. Hoffner casually flipped through to see if Manstein might appear in another unit or even battalion, but a quick scan turned up nothing. He knew anything more than a perfunctory glance would have caught the Herr Major’s attention. Hoffner brought out his pen and wrote down the names in Urlicher’s unit. He then closed the book and handed it back.

“The names you’ve written,” said the Herr Major. “Some of these men remain active members of the regiment, Herr Inspector. I’m correct in thinking that they will not be a part of your investigation?”

Hoffner pocketed his pen. “Of course, Herr Major.”

With a nod, the two men stood. The Herr Major said, “The man is dead by now, Herr Inspector. The disease is crippling and ultimately fatal. The bones become as brittle as paper. As you said, he is no longer our responsibility.”

Hoffner understood. The work of Regimental Affairs was now devoted to toting up the dead like so much excess inventory. Urlicher’s discharge had saved them valuable space; they were not intent on finding a spot for him now. “Then we won’t need to see each other again, will we, Herr Major?”

At the door, Hoffner tipped his hat to the clerk. The boy almost forgot himself with a smile.

Back at his office, Hoffner wrote out a short list of names: Urlicher, Oster, and Manstein, Trger, Schumpert, and Biberkopf-Jogiches had mentioned “Prussian business concerns,” so why not include them? – and for good measure, Braun, Tamshik, and Hermannsohn; Weigland, he knew, was not clever enough to merit inclusion. At the bottom of the page, he wrote the words “Rosa” and “Wouters.” He also jotted down dates next to each of the men’s names, indicating when they might have become involved, or at least when they had shown some connection to Rosa and Wouters. How far back that went was impossible to say.

The first three had conspired to set Wouters loose on Berlin starting in June of last year, but to what end? To get rid of Rosa without a trace of political involvement, by having it appear that she was just one more victim of Wouters’s madness? Why not simply do the killings themselves, if it was all a ploy? Why dredge up Wouters? If Urlicher, Oster, and Manstein had in fact been working in conjunction with any of the last three on the list, why was the Polpo holding on to her body? Why set up Wouters, unleash him, and then keep Rosa hidden? Jogiches’s “obvious” answer made sense only in hindsight. Worse, Hoffner had nothing to say about the three names in the middle. The design of the Rosenthaler station and the missing engineer-Herr Tben/Sazonov-pointed to the construction company of Ganz-Neurath, but Berlin money linked to a Munich regiment not only seemed a stretch, it was completely out of character: there were no heights steep enough from which a Prussian could look down his nose at a Bavarian. The timing there was also troubling: when had Herr Tben/Sazonov made his alterations so as to give Wouters his ideal surroundings?

The only recourse Hoffner had was to track down Oster and Manstein, which only confirmed everything Jogiches had been saying: Munich.

Hoffner reached over to telephone the duty desk for a train schedule and saw little Franz standing in the doorway. It was unclear how long the boy had been there. “Something I can do for you, Franz?”

The boy was oddly hesitant. “A note’s come in for you, Herr Oberkommissar.To the duty desk.”

“Well, give it here.” Franz produced the small, familiar-looking envelope. “Same man with the beard?” Hoffner sliced open the top as Franz nodded.

Odd, thought Hoffner. Jogiches was hardly a man to repeat himself. “Anything on Herr Kvatsch?” He pulled out the card. He had given up hope at this point: Kvatsch was playing it far better than he had anticipated. Still, it was good to ask; keep the boy on his toes.

“A few more times with Herr Kriminal-BezirkssekretrGroener,” said Franz, “but nothing more, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Groener, thought Hoffner. More dirty work for Jogiches. He made a mental note to sit down with the detective sergeant. Over a whiskey. It was the only substance he could think of strong enough to counteract the stench.

The card was the same quality as before, except this time Jogiches had chosen a typewriter. There was an address, the word “Urgent,” and the signature “K.”

Hoffner looked up. Franz was peering across at him with surprising interest. “Yes?” said Hoffner.

For just a moment the boy looked as if he had been caught out. “Well. .” he said, “I’ve been following Herr Kvatsch around for you, Herr Oberkommissar,and for a couple of weeks now.” Franz let the words linger.

Hoffner understood. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a few pfennigs. He placed the coins on the far side of the desk and said, “Never be afraid to ask for what you’re owed, Franz.”

The boy walked over and took the money. “Yes, Herr Oberkommissar.”

Hoffner knew there was no point in keeping after Kvatsch now. Even so, he said, “Ten pfennigs a week for more information, all right?”

This seemed fair. Franz nodded. He pocketed his wages and headed out the door.

Forty-five minutes later, Hoffner stepped out of a cab and into the overwhelming stench of hacked flesh. Fichte was still nowhere to be found, but the note had been clear: urgent. Hoffner would manage Fichte later.

The address from Jogiches was out in the slaughter-yard district, about as far east as one could go: killing of this kind was too much even for the folks in Prenzlauer Berg; they wanted it out of their backyards, as well. The whole area was little more than a series of slick cobblestone alleys and dirty gray walls topped by barbed wire, although the cows and hogs and whatnot were hardly there long enough to merit the precaution. Someone had once joked that the wires had been set in place to keep the rest of Berlin from sneaking up and stealing a few pieces of meat. Given the state of things now, no one was laughing.

Oddly enough, it was the one place in town that reminded Hoffner of his father’s Berlin, where the smell of manure outpaced the stink of automobile petrol, and where the lazy hoof-fall of an overworked nag replaced the coiled snap of a tram wire from above. This was a world of wagons and pushcarts, the red and yellow spokes of the slaughterhouse two-wheelers as common a sight as a Daimler in the Westend. No amount of snow could cover the grit that was here; a constant plume of locomotive smoke rose from the Belt Line Railway yards-livestock rolling in from East Prussia and Pomerania and Brandenburg-soaking the flakes in soot before they had a chance to make it to the ground. It hardly mattered, though: there was nothing to hide out here. It was killing, pure and simple.

Hoffner found the building, a worn sign for MECK UND SONNE above the door. The shortages had forced some of the smaller houses to consolidate, a nice word for shutting down the works and letting go fifty men. The surrounding buildings had fallen victim, as well. Hard to imagine something more depressing than a row of slaughterhouses, but here it was, a row of abandoned ones.

The lock on the door had been jimmied. Hoffner wondered if Jogiches had recognized the irony in his choice of lodging; then again, maybe a man as good as dead could tempt the fates?

Hoffner stepped inside and was struck at once by the taste of raw meat in the air. The building was ice cold, but the chill had done nothing to minimize the rancid remnants of Herr Meck’s once thriving business. Hoffner realized he was standing inside an enormous hall, brick wall rising to a ceiling some twenty meters above. A grim light poured in from a series of windows that stretched around the uppermost reaches of the walls, but it did little more than cast odd shadows: at ground level, the space was a collection of amorphous shapes in black and gray. One of them began to move toward him, and Hoffner stepped over to meet it. “Herr Jogiches,” he said. The next thing he knew, Hoffner was feeling the ripping pain of a well-placed boot to his ribs.

He doubled over instantly, his nausea only slightly more acute than his surprise. Hoffner had no time to react to either as a second blow landed on the back of his neck, a gloved hand from somewhere behind making its presence known. Hoffner’s face slammed to the floor, the echo of his own stifled breath ringing in the hall. He tried to reach for his gun, but he had never been terribly good at any of this. The blows came more rapidly now, fists and boots with excruciating precision. Hoffner was doing all he could to curl into himself, but it was all too vicious and determined to permit any kind of retreat. A first taste of blood dripped to his lips as a thick set of fingers ripped into his hair and jerked his head up. Hoffner choked out a cough, only to smell the breath of an unwashed mouth a few centimeters from him.

“No more questions,” whispered the voice. “No more late-night meetings. No more visits to the file rooms at the GS. You understand? Step off, Herr Inspector.”

Hoffner did everything he could to answer: he twitched his head once.

“Good.” The man held him there for several more seconds before releasing. Hoffner’s head fell to the cobblestone with a compressed smack even as the smell of foul breath continued to linger over him. The man was hovering. Hoffner tried to open his eyes, but there was no point.

“No more,” said the voice.

There was a last kick to his kidneys, but Hoffner was too far gone to feel it. He heard the sound of receding steps, sensed a sudden shock of light, but he was out cold by the time the door slammed shut.

Half an hour later, his eyes opened.

The pain was a constant throbbing, though the stiffness in his chest was far more of a problem. He tried not to breathe too deeply: every intake was like a cracking of bone. Swallowing, too, had become impossible, no saliva to be had. It was several minutes before he found the strength to push himself up to his knees, and, at no better than a crawl, he made his way over to the near wall and began to prop himself up. At least they had left him his legs. Hunched over and holding to the wall, Hoffner forced himself to the door and out into the light.

The sudden brightness brought his hand up to his face, the reflex a mistake, and his entire back arched in pain. Stifling a groan, Hoffner spotted a series of water taps sticking out from the wall of the building, and making his way over, tried his luck with the first in line: miraculously, a stream of cold water began to flow. He gingerly placed his lips under the tap and drank. Almost at once the ache in his head lifted; it was clear that the real damage had gone on below his neck. Stretching his arm to the ground, he grabbed for a ball of sooted snow and placed it on the back of his neck. The sense of relief was instantaneous even as a pool of soiled water collected at his collar. Slowly he stood upright. The uncoiling sent a rush of pain through his ribs and lower back while he tried to assess the damage. They had broken nothing; better still, they had left no marks for anyone to see. Save for the small bump just above his temple, where his head had smacked against the stone, the bruising lay hidden below his shirt; his face had gone unscathed. Hoffner had to appreciate the professional quality of the work.

Step off, Herr Inspector.And so polite, he thought. He dropped the snow and reached into his jacket pocket for his flask. The whiskey was wonderfully warm and immediately went to work. Four or five long pulls, and he felt fit enough to push himself up from the wall. It was only then, with his head clearing, that he began to consider the note. Someone had played him, someone who had known about K. More astounding, someone who had seen him at the Office of the General Staff this morning. No more visits to the file rooms. .

He was getting close, and he was still alive. There had to be something in that.

Hoffner found a taxi and told the man to drive. In his condition, he was not that uncommon a fare for this part of town, although four o’clock might have been a bit early for it. Even so, the man showed no surprise when Hoffner went back to the whiskey-his neck had begun to tighten-and by the time they arrived in Kreuzberg, Hoffner could move through the courtyard without drawing too much attention to himself.

Mercifully, the flat was empty. Wednesdays Martha spent with Eva: Herr DoktorKeubel taught at some dental college and gave his staff the afternoon off. Hoffner slowly got undressed and ran a bath. He noticed some nice discoloring under his right arm, which extended to his lower back, where it looked as if a thousand tiny veins had exploded below the skin. He had had worse-always in the company of Knig-but never as a threat. Hoffner recalled the early days when Knig’s quick thinking had helped them run down some of the city’s more unsavory types; or, rather, when Knig had relied on his own unsavoriness to expedite matters. The two had always given as good as they got, or at least Knig had. Hoffner still had trouble with his wrist from one of those encounters. Sitting back in the steaming water, he laughed at the thought of it, and his entire left side cramped.