Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

SIX

HEAVEN ON EARTH

In the summer of 1903, married less than a year and recently promoted to detective sergeant, Hoffner had taken Martha out to Wannsee for a day at the beach. He had put a little extra money in his pocket and they had rented two chairs and an umbrella and a cabana-tent of their own. She had packed sandwiches and a bottle of Sekt to celebrate, and after lunch they had changed into swimming clothes and waded out to where the water was coolest. Side by side and staring out across the endless lake, he had finally agreed to have a family. Martha had reached down into the water and pulled up a pebble as a keepsake. Hoffner had found it in a box by their bed the day he had buried her.

The following morning he had been relieved of duty. Prager had talked about the strain of it all, that a man couldn’t be expected to run a case in his position-any case-but the real impetus for Hoffner’s ouster was far more transparent: Prager had been told to clear him out. The order had come from beyond the walls of the Alex. There was nothing either of them could do.

Tonight, Hoffner’s refuge was a grotty little bar deep inside the maze that was Prenzlauer Berg, sawdust strewn across its floor for whatever the shadows might be failing to hide. A woman hovered shamelessly by the bartender, the dim light working in her favor: there might just be a warm bed for her tonight. The rest of the clientele showed a little more decorum: chins drooped to chests, aimless fingers clasped at half-filled glasses. Only the sudden shaking of a head and the quick tossing-back of a drink gave any indication that the place was anything more than a repository for propped-up corpses. Hoffner checked the bottle in front of him and saw it was whiskey he had been pouring back tonight.

Time had taken an odd turn in the past few days: it had slipped by with a steady indifference even as it had remained fixed on that moment in Kremmener Strasse. For the first time, Berlin was pushing forward without him: two more bodies had been found in Charlottenburg; the panic had returned. More than that, rekindled accusations of Kripo incompetence now hung over the city like so many added layers of soiled snow. There was even talk of corruption.

The papers, of course, were rewriting the past. Wouters was no longer the demented madman but the scapegoat for an investigation that had gone terribly wrong: what was the Kripo hiding? The fact that the little Belgian had been shot while wheeling around his final victim had somehow been lost to a collective bout of amnesia. It was even beginning to take its toll on the fledgling government: who was protecting Berlin?

Hoffner read through the articles-coherent moments between bottles-and let everything drift past him. Poor Fichte looked so hapless on all those front pages, no one to buy him a drink this time round.

Hoffner felt a shadow as a figure appeared at the end of his table.

“You’ve enough for two?” said a voice.

Hoffner looked up to see Leo Jogiches standing with an empty glass in hand; Jogiches placed the glass on the table: it had only been a matter of time, thought Hoffner. He took the glass and filled it.

“Difficult to track you down,” said Jogiches as he sat.

“I didn’t know anyone was looking.”

“I’ve had a man at your flat.”

“Then he must have been very lonely.”

Jogiches took a sip of the whiskey. “Keeping yourself busy,” he said as he nodded over at the bottle.

Hoffner poured one for himself. “Not as busy as you,” he said as he set the bottle down; he tapped at the paper that was on the table. “Can’t open one of these without reading about your General Strike. Workers of the world. .” Hoffner snorted quietly to himself. “It won’t make any difference.”

The Party had called the strike three days ago, even though Jogiches had known it was a mistake: still, Eisner’s assassination had given everyone hope. Who was he to stamp on that? “Worth a try,” said Jogiches. “Someone had to keep them on their toes.”

Hoffner took a drink.

Jogiches said, “I was sorry to read about your wife.”

“Were you?” Hoffner kept his eyes on his glass. “They send a very clear message.”

Jogiches finished off his whiskey and said, “So Munich was a success?”

Hoffner wondered if Jogiches ever saw a human side in all of this. He said plainly, “If by success you mean it was enough to provoke them to kill my wife, then yes.” Hoffner refilled his glass.

Compassion made Jogiches uncomfortable. He said awkwardly, “There are children?”

The questions were growing more absurd. Hoffner laughed bitterly to himself. “Yes,” he said with surprising sharpness. “There are children.” He had spoken to no one about this, and a week’s worth of resentments now spilled out. “And since you’re so interested, the older boy blames me for her death, while the little one hasn’t said a word since. He was asleep when it happened-when they came and took my wife-so you can see how lucky he was, but there’s always the chance that he heard something, isn’t there? A few shouts from beyond the bedroom?” Hoffner took his glass and eyed the liquid. “They’re living with her sisters now.” This carried an added sourness. “Best for everyone, I imagine.” He tossed back the whiskey and placed the glass on the table. “You’ve made the effort. We can move on.”

Jogiches might have expected the venom; or if not, at least he understood it. Either way, he was happy enough to leave it behind them. “So you’ve seen today’s papers?”

“Today’s, yesterday’s, makes no difference.”

“Ah, but it does. They’ve widened their scope.” Hoffner didn’t follow. “The Kripo isn’t all that they’re after, Herr Inspector. Word is that the carvings are being inspired by a lace design. A design from a very specific source.”

It took Hoffner a moment to sift through the booze. When he did, he recalled Brenner’s warning. “They’re claiming it’s a Jew?”

Jogiches nodded. “A boy was beaten outside a shop in the Kurfrstendamm. There was broken glass and some writing at a synagogue.”

For the first time in days, Hoffner stepped outside of himself. The hysteria was taking on a distinct Thulian flavor. Jogiches saw the shift in his expression and said, “And that would be consistent with what you found in Munich?”

Hoffner stared across the table; for several moments he said nothing. He knew he could either pour himself another drink or he could answer. It was as simple as that. Finally he said, “Who was the third prisoner at the Eden?”

Jogiches allowed himself a smile. “You want this as much as I do, don’t you, Inspector?”

Hoffner heard the echoes of “cause” and “truth” in the question: how little Jogiches understood. “The third prisoner,” he repeated.

“A man named Pieck. One of Rosa’s former students. His bad luck to be at the flat the night they were taken.”

“And he saw everything?”

“Yes.”

“They simply let him go?”

“False papers. Good enough to convince the halfwits of the Schtzen-Division.They’ve never been terribly bright over there. Pieck slipped away in the confusion.”

“And you trust him?”

“About this, yes.”

“So who gave the orders to separate them?”

“Wolfgang Nepp.” Jogiches paused for effect. “Former Wehrmachtgeneral, and current Deputy Minister of Defense.”

This was the last item in Jogiches’s private cache, though it hardly made any difference: if the Munich loonies had drummed up disciples in the officer corps and the Polpo, why then not in Ebert’s government? Not that Hoffner needed a reason to share what he had with Jogiches: the events of the last week had made discretion somehow pass.

Hoffner traced the line from Wouters through the substitution of the now-dead Urlicher to the beer-hall Eckart, and finally to Herr DoktorManstein and the Thulian Society. He explained the military connections to the Ascomycete 4, and the link between the Rosenthaler station design and the directors of Ganz-Neurath-those Prussian business interests. He ran through the details on the second carver-the jagged versus the smooth lines-then Tamshik’s appearance at the Ochsenhof,and through it all Jogiches listened intently, never once asking a question.

When Hoffner was finished, he poured himself a glass and said, “All the pieces, mein Herr.Nice and neat. You can do with them what you will.” Hoffner shot back the whiskey and poured himself another. He expected Jogiches to get up, but the man continued to stare at him from across the table. When it became apparent that Jogiches had no intention of leaving, Hoffner said, “Not enough for you?”

Jogiches waited before answering. “Is it for you?” he said.

Hoffner had answered the question days ago: it was why he was still here. “Let’s just say we don’t share the same needs, you and I.”

“Things have resolved themselves to your satisfaction, then?”

Hoffner did his best to ignore the goading. There was no point in going down this path. He said, “How much of this did you know in January?” Jogiches showed a moment’s surprise. “Rcker’s bar,” said Hoffner. “The day after she was killed. You were there, keeping an eye on me.”

Jogiches recalled their first encounter. “The tired professor. I didn’t think you would have remembered that.” He nodded his approval. “Groener,” he said. “He’d seen Rosa and the carvings when she first came in that morning, and knew the case would go to you. He got in touch with me, told me where I might find you. I suppose I wanted to see the sort of man who would be asked to make sense of it.”

“And?”

“You didn’t seem a complete idiot.”

“No,” Hoffner corrected. “And how much did you know?”

Jogiches took the bottle and refilled his glass. “Not enough to have stopped the killings, if that’s what you mean. Pieck found me the night before. He told me that Rosa had been taken by Vogel. I knew she was no maniac’s victim.” He was about to drink, when he said, “Or, rather, I knew she wasn’t yourmaniac’s victim. Which meant that there was something more to her killing, and more to your killings, than either of us realized at the time.” He finished his whiskey.

“And Munich?”

“That came later, after you’d caught the Belgian. There was money flowing into the Schtzen-Division.Rifleman Runge wasn’t shy about spending his. It took me time to trace it. A Munich doctor. More than that I couldn’t find. I assume he was your Herr Manstein. Groener also found telephone logs for calls to and from Munich by a Polpo detective.”

“Braun,” said Hoffner.

“Yes. He was also meeting with Nepp on a regular basis. The arrogance of these people astounds me.”

Hoffner thought about his own trip to Munich: and what had that been, he wondered. He said, “So this Pieck is willing to come forward?”

“If it comes to that.”

Hoffner saw something in Jogiches’s eyes. “You don’t know where he is, do you?”

Jogiches waited: there was nothing apologetic in the tone when he spoke. “No,” he said. “Not that it would make any difference. A Red pointing the finger. . who’s going to place much stock in that?”

It was an obvious point, but one that Hoffner would never have thought Jogiches willing to accept, at least not so graciously. And then it struck him, the reason why Jogiches had been with this from the start: the reason he was still at the table. “But a Kripo Detective. . that’s something entirely different, isn’t it?” Hoffner waited for a reaction; when none came, he said, “You or your friend Pieck put things together and no one has to pay attention. You let the Kripo put it together and suddenly there’s a legitimate case.”

For several long moments, Jogiches continued to hold Hoffner’s stare. He then raised his eyebrows and said, “And there it is.” Again he waited. “Tell me, Inspector, would you have trusted anything I might have given you openly? The former lover out for revenge, the mad revolutionary desperate for chaos? Was I wrong? It was all in the aid of truth, so what difference does it make? I certainly wouldn’t have trusted you had the positions been reversed.”

“You wouldn’t have trusted me regardless of the positions.”

“Fair enough.”

For the first time in a week Hoffner felt a different kind of hostility, one aimed out, not in. It perched at the base of his throat and was oddly comforting. “And now I’m meant to finish what you started, is that it?” he said.

“I started nothing,” said Jogiches. “I simply chose the best route to an end.”

“Regardless of the consequences.”

“You and I aren’t all that different in that regard, are we, Inspector?” Jogiches could be equally biting. When Hoffner said nothing, Jogiches said, “You’re not the only one to have lost something in this.”

Hoffner remained silent: there was nothing he could say to defend himself.

Jogiches shifted tone: “When was the last time you saw a bed?” Hoffner couldn’t remember; he shrugged. “You need sleep,” Jogiches said as he stood. “I have a place.” Hoffner shook his head, but Jogiches already had the bottle. He turned to the bartender. “We’ll take this with us.” The man nodded distractedly and went back to the woman. Jogiches turned to Hoffner. “You need to get up now.”

It was close to eleven when they stepped outside. Hoffner had lost track of the time hours ago-days ago-and was struck by the pitch black of the night sky. Why, he wondered, had he imagined it to be earlier? He breathed in deeply-only a twinge now from his ribs-and let the rawness fill his lungs. He had almost forgotten the taste of crisp air; it cleared his head. He recalled having spent a night at the Hotel Palme in and among the whores and pickpockets, the sight of its tattered awning up ahead now a reminder of muffled voices and thuds coming from somewhere beyond his walls as he had drifted in and out of sleep. He had chosen the Palme for a reason. He now remembered that, as well.

Two streets on, he turned right. Jogiches stopped behind him and said, “Where are you going?”

Hoffner spoke over his shoulder as he continued to walk. “This won’t take long.” With no other choice, Jogiches caught up and the two walked in silence.

The street might have been any other, a lamp here and there to offer the pretense of civility, but the chipped walls and occasional shattered window of the flats above made plain what kind of life lay within. Even where a strip of light peeked through from the edge of a drawn shade, there was no warmth beyond it. This was a street meant to be forgotten, and it was why Hoffner had chosen it.

He mounted the steps to one of the stoops and pressed his thumb twice, then twice again, against the bell for the third-floor flat. Jogiches had remained down in the street. Hoffner peered up and saw a curtain ripple. Half a minute later he heard footsteps through the door. It opened and a dim light spilled out onto the stoop.

Lina held her arms tightly across her chest, her best defense against the chill in a thin dress. She was without makeup, her skin an ashy white, her eyes smaller and less severe than usual: Hoffner had never noticed the natural beauty in her face. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said, and she shook her head. “It’s all right, then?” he said. “The place?” Hoffner had called in a favor, a black-market meats peddler who kept a spare room. At least Lina was eating well. She nodded. He said, “It shouldn’t be more than another few days, just to be safe. You have money?”

“I’m going tomorrow.”

Hoffner shook his head. “They might still have someone watching your place.”

“Not there,” she said. Her eyes dropped as she spoke. “I have an uncle in Oldenburg. In the north. He has a shop.”

This was something Hoffner had never considered. He had imagined that he could place her safely away for a time, lose himself, and then return to open the cage: a final act of contrition. Maybe then she would keep him somewhere in her memory, but that, too, seemed not to be. He did his best to sound encouraging. “A flower shop?”

She looked up and tried a smile, but there was too much sadness in her eyes. “I hope not.”

“It’ll be better there, I imagine.” Hoffner had no idea why he had said it.

She nodded unconvincingly. “The boy is all right?”

The boy, he thought. Fifteen-year-old Sascha. What, then, was a girl of nineteen? Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out the few bills he had. “You’ll want this for the train.”

She shook her head and said, “I’m all right. Give it to Elise. She’ll need it for the rent.” She took in a deep breath and glanced up at the sky as she tightened her arms around her chest. “I’m not running away, you know. It’s just too much right now.”

Hoffner took her hand and placed the money in her palm. So many things to notice for the first time: the smallness of a wrist, the slenderness of her fingers. He saw her shiver. “You should go in,” he said.

Her fingers closed around his hand. “You could come up?”

The warmth of her body and the promise of a bed, he thought: if only it were that simple. He shook his head and took back his hand. Her neck was now a rippling of gooseflesh.

She said, “There really isn’t anything here for me, is there?”

Hope and despair, like a wake trailing behind him: Hoffner could feel himself being pulled in. “You should take a taxi,” he said. “As close to the time as possible. No reason to be out on the platform longer than you have to be.”

She was reaching for him even as he spoke, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her cheek pulled tight into his neck. He felt the warmth of her breath, and he placed his arm around her. There was life within her embrace, a sudden strength that was all the more wrenching as she pulled away, her arms folded to her chest. Her face was again a placid gray. “You don’t think it will be this way, and then of course it is. Silly, really.”

He could tell how much she wanted from him, now with nothing else beyond this single moment. How difficult would it be to give her that? He said, “When this is over-”

“Yes.” She cut him off. She didn’t want to hear it; it was enough that he had tried. She ran her hand across his chest. She then turned away. A moment later, the door shut behind her.

Jogiches was kind enough not to ask. The two walked in silence, Jogiches directing them with a nod for a street, a building.

The room he had found was no better than what they had just left behind. This one, however, was a step down from the street, recessed behind the stoop and with thick bars across its door and single window. Jogiches rummaged for a key: the door squealed open and he led Hoffner inside. He struck a match and brought the dank little space to life. An oil lamp was by the door and he adjusted the flame.

Pipes were bare along the ceiling, and the cracks in the walls spread out in a topography of tiny streamlets and rivers. The smell of mold and decay was matched only by the stench of urine. A mattress-long past its prime-lay in the corner. Hovering above it stood a large metal trunk. Hoffner wondered what it was to have the remnants of one’s life always at arm’s reach.

“Landlord doesn’t know I’m here,” said Jogiches, as if the point wasn’t obvious. “You take the mattress. I don’t sleep much these days.”

Exhaustion had been tracking Hoffner like a marksman; he could feel the squeezing of the trigger from behind him. He moved across to the mattress.

Jogiches rested his back against the wall and slid down to the floor. “You’ll be taking that when this is done.” Hoffner looked over and saw Jogiches nodding toward the trunk. “Her papers. All of them. Everything she had.” Jogiches kept the lamp between his knees. “Not much chance of revolution now, is there, general strikes notwithstanding? Even I know it. But that”-Jogiches again nodded to the trunk-“that has to live beyond this.”

Hoffner knelt down and opened the trunk’s lid. He pulled back a thick blanket that had been placed across the top: Jogiches was keeping the contents warm and dry despite his own squalor. Even in shadow, Hoffner could make out the stacks of books and loose pages that were piled high to the edge.

Jogiches said, “We both know I won’t be here long enough to make sure of that.” He pulled his coat tighter around his chest and seemed to lose himself for a moment. “To make sure of any of it, I suppose.” He looked back at Hoffner. “Put the blanket over it and close the lid.”

The irony of a trunk as Rosa’s final resting place was not lost on Hoffner. He did as he was told. “And the cause lives on,” he murmured under his breath.

There was a snort of acknowledgment from across the room. Hoffner turned, surprised that Jogiches had heard: the eyes were barely open; the head was cocked to one side; the shadow above seemed to paint him in the pose of a hanging man. Jogiches nodded slowly, his eyes still closed: “The cause,” he echoed. “She wanted to take her life. Did you know that? Just before the war. She said it was finished, that the workers had betrayed themselves by voting for the rearmament. One day a united proletariat, the next enemies at war. She was right, of course.” His head tilted back as if he were remembering something. “I said we should go together, a final noble act, but she managed to see something else in it. A prelude, she said. The last slap to the workers’ faces. Then they would see how they had been used. Then they would climb from their trenches and tear down the world that had imprisoned them for so long.” He stopped and his eyes opened. He stared distantly into the dark. “‘I am, I was, I shall be.’” His gaze was almost wistful. He looked over at Hoffner. “She wrote that the day before they took her. Not about herself but about the revolution. Yes, I know-cause, truth-you find it all absurd, but that’s not what’s in that trunk. What’s there is faith, hope-even in moments of greatest despair-that she could see beyond herself, beyond the corruption and human frailty, and imagine what could be.” His head fell back against the wall and again he shut his eyes. “And if you find that nave, Inspector, then you haven’t nearly understood what it is you’re now up against.”

Here at last was the humanity, thought Hoffner. Jogiches had recognized in Rosa something more vital than his own cold conviction, and it was that, and that alone, that he was now desperate to save. Hoffner said, “You surprise me.”

Jogiches kept his eyes closed. “How so?”

“A romantic at the end?”

Jogiches found a smile somewhere. “And what is it for you, then, Inspector? Loose ends? A detective’s need to mop things up? I don’t believe that, and neither, I suspect, do you.”

Hoffner had no reason to disagree. He said, “So what would she have done now?”

Jogiches opened his eyes and peered over at Hoffner-that familiar, impenetrable gaze. “She would have gotten some sleep,” he said.

Hoffner needed no more by way of encouragement. The lamp flared out and they slipped off into quiet darkness.

Later, Hoffner had a dream. He was in the water of Wannsee, staring out into the endless blue, when he heard the sound of splashing coming out toward him. He turned, but the sun was too much in his eyes and he saw only the outline of a figure, a woman-Martha-drawing closer. He put up his hand to shield his eyes, but he could barely make her out. He turned back to the blue and waited for her to join him.

“You raced so far ahead,” she said when she was almost to him.

Hoffner ran his hands through the water and he turned to see Rosa standing next to him.

“I’ve brought you this,” she said as she handed him the pebble.

Hoffner took it and rubbed his thumb across its smoothness. It suddenly felt like sand and began to crumble in his palm.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I can bring you another.” She started to go, but Hoffner reached out and took her arm.

“Why?” he said.

“Why?” she said with a kind smile. She pulled away and her face became Lina’s. “Because it’s enough that you want it.” He felt himself losing his footing. He fell back into the water and his eyes opened.

It was several moments before Hoffner realized where he was. He heard Jogiches’s breathing from somewhere across the room and he brought himself up to his elbows. Dreams usually exhausted him: they required unpacking. This one, however, had left him strangely refreshed.

It was true: he had raced too far ahead and had let himself get lost in things that were still too much for him-sacrifice and redemption, nobility and despair-and while he had been forced to confront and ultimately concede to them in the world of Martha and his boys and Lina-all of it beyond his control-he had also let them seep into the one place where they had no right to be: his case. He had gotten caught up in the larger ideas-Thulian or socialist, it made no difference-and had let them color his perception. They were clouding the details, and the one detail that had forever been out of place-the one that had stood apart from the very start-was Rosa. Everything led to her. It was only now that Hoffner recognized why that had never been the point. What mattered-what he had failed to grasp all along-was that these men wanted her: they had wanted her from the start. And if they wanted her, then he needed to take her from them. It was as simple as that. Let them come to him, then, and explain why.

“Jogiches,” he said as he got to his feet. “What do you say to a bath?” He heard movement from across the room.

An anxious whisper followed: “Who’s. .?” Jogiches caught himself; he, too, had been drifting elsewhere. A match flared and the lamp lit up. Hoffner checked his watch. Three-fifteen. “Is it safe to leave the trunk here?” he said.

Jogiches needed another moment to find his focus. “The trunk?” he said. “I imagine. Yes. As safe as anywhere.” It was only when he was on his feet that he thought to ask, “A bath?” Jogiches looked genuinely puzzled. “What about a bath?”

It took them nearly half an hour to get across town to the Admiral’s Palace, even at this time of night. The steam rooms were a common destination for Berlin’s night-crawl crowd-open once again through the night now that the city had come back to its senses-and where a few marks and forty minutes were all that was needed to rejuvenate any set of tired bones or aching heads. For the most devoted-those who saw the pools and steam baths only by first light-it was known as the “clean break,” the stop between bar and desk. It was remarkable how a few minutes sweating out the booze could make a day at the office seem almost bearable.

Hoffner paid for both himself and Jogiches and, after a quick stop at the locker stalls, emerged to the common lounge decked out in slippers and a Turkish towel; Jogiches had opted for the full robe and hood: he looked like a slightly bedraggled Druid.

It was an impressive place, two stories high, with a colonnade of black and white marble columns under an open balcony that ran the perimeter of the four walls. A few of the denizens were peering down, catching a breath before returning to their self-imposed swelter boxes. Others sat below in thick leather chairs, reading papers or talking casually to one another. A series of Persian rugs dotted the floor. One might have guessed that this was the setting for an afternoon tea, had each of the men not been in various states of undress. The fattest invariably sat au naturel. Hoffner wondered if it was a lack of towel girth or simply pride that had prompted the choices.

He led Jogiches up the stairs and toward the last of the rooms on the right. A large, powerfully built man stood at the door in nothing but white socks: he had little to be ashamed of. He held a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and was showing extreme care each time he removed it to flick away the ash.

“Private room,” he said through a cloud of smoke.

“Tell him Nikolai Hoffner wants to see him.”

The man glanced over at Jogiches. “And?”

“Just tell him Hoffner.”

The man sized them up again, and then knocked once over his shoulder. A moment later a plume of steam billowed from the half-opened door to reveal a second, equally impressive titan, who was drenched in sweat. “Nikolai Hoffner,” said the first man. The door closed and the three stood staring at each other while they waited. “Drop the robe and the towel,” said the man. “And the slippers. Nothing goes in.” Jogiches and Hoffner did as they were told: they were now three naked silent men.

The knock came and the man nodded them through.

The sting of hot, moist air was instantaneous, as was the hiss of gushing steam. As far as Hoffner could make out, the room was all white tile, including the floor: he had to steady himself against the wall to keep from slipping. His skin had gone instantly slick, and the puffed air made it impossible to see more than a half-meter in front of him.

“Watch yourself there, Inspector,” came a voice from across the room. “Let’s see that you make it across alive.” It was joined by a small chorus of laughter. “Turn it down, Zenlo,” said the voice. Hoffner heard the squeal of a valve being spun. Instantly the hiss choked off and the steam began its slow descent to the floor. As the air cleared, Hoffner saw the six or seven men who were seated across the room on two step-levels. They might have passed for a klatch of well-fed businessmen if not for the collection of odd scars and discolorations on their cheeks, arms, and chests. Marks of the trade, thought Hoffner. No wonder they liked the baths: a nightly chance to wash away their sins.

On the topmost step, and in the far corner, sat an equally naked Alby Pimm.

Pimm was small and pale by comparison to the rest, with a shock of curly jet-black hair that made him look almost boyish. His face, however, said otherwise. It had that weathered look of forty-odd years living off the streets, time spent climbing to the top ranks of the Immertreu,one of Berlin’s more notorious syndicates. Just now Pimm was enjoying a rather charmed relationship with the Kripo. He had proved himself useful during the war-keeping an eye on undesirables and foreigners-and had thus earned himself something of a free hand when it came to his less-violent enterprises: black-market trade, a little extortion-these passed without too much interference. Anything more serious, however, was still fair game.