Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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Room 416 looked to be like any other on the hall. Hoffner heard voices through the door: he knocked once, the din stopped, and a moment later the door opened to reveal Kriminal-OberkommissarBraun.

“Good evening, Herr Inspector,” said Braun, still immaculately combed and pressed. In a strange twist, he, too, had lost his jacket; Hoffner wondered if there might be a steam pipe somewhere in the vicinity.

“Kriminal-Oberkommissar,”said Hoffner. Braun nodded once and ushered him in.

Two other men stood to the left by a long desk; a third was seated behind. The gaslight was keeping the office as bright as possible. Hans Fichte was by himself in a chair at the far end of the room, bits and pieces of him lost to the shadows. He sat up eagerly as Hoffner entered.

“Kriminal-Assistent,”said Hoffner with a look to keep Fichte where he was.

Fichte seemed slightly disappointed; he settled back into his chair. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he replied quietly.

“Ah, here we are, Nikolai,” said the man from behind the desk. “Nice to see you again.”

Polpo KriminaldirektorGerhard Weigland stood and offered his hand. He had aged considerably since Hoffner last saw him: the hair was virtually gone except for a neat ring of curly white at the temples; the beard had grown long and full, stained a mucinous yellow around the chin and moustache from decades of cigarettes; and the face had thickened, pressing the eyes deep into the twin cavities above the gray-red cheeks. Never tall, Weigland seemed squatter still from the added weight. His hand, though, remained powerful. The knuckles drove up through the flesh as if the fingers intended to squeeze the life out of anything they touched.

Hoffner peered at the two other men, then stepped over and took the PKD’s hand. “Herr Kriminaldirektor,” said Hoffner.

“It’s been a long time, Nikolai,” said Weigland; he released and sat. “Only a floor above and-well, a long time.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminaldirektor,” said Hoffner, who remained standing at the edge of the desk.

“It seems your man was in the midst of giving a little tour,” said Weigland through a half-smile.

Hoffner said, “Hans is very enthusiastic, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”

“As we discovered,” said Weigland with a laugh. The other men laughed, as well.

Hoffner waited. “I’m sure that’s not why we’re here, Herr Kriminaldirektor.After all, we were all Assistentenonce.”

Weigland stared up with a smile that claimed to know Hoffner better than it did: everything about Weigland claimed to know more than it did. “Always right to it,” he said. “A lesson for us all, eh, Herr Oberkommissar?”

Braun, who was now at Weigland’s side, seemed to grow tauter still. “Indeed, Herr Direktor.”

“We needed a bit more time with the Luxemburg body,” said Weigland in an equally casual tone. “You understand.”

“We?” said Hoffner, peering again at the two other men.

Weigland followed Hoffner’s gaze. “You know KommissarenTamshik and Hermannsohn?”

“No, Herr Kriminaldirektor.”

“Ah,” said Weigland. “My mistake.” He made the introductions. “They’ve been brought in, now that it’s a political case.”

Ernst Tamshik had the look of the military about him, the way he kept his hands clasped tightly behind his back, the way his broad shoulders hitched high so as to keep his back ramrod straight. There might even have been something protective to him had it not been for the expression on his face: he was a bully, and a particularly brutal one, judging from the child’s sneer in his eyes, an ex-sergeant major, Hoffner guessed, who had reveled in the terrorizing of his young recruits. But, like all bullies, he had learned to play the innocent while under his mother’s watchful gaze. Hoffner had yet to figure out which of the two, Weigland or Braun, had assumed that role.

Walther Hermannsohn was far less graspable. He was slighter, though just as tall, and had no need for Tamshik’s stifled violence or Braun’s clipped affectation. He projected nothing and, for Hoffner, that made him the most dangerous man in the room.

“A political case?” said Hoffner. “That seems a bit premature, don’t you think, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

Weigland was momentarily confused. “Premature? Why do you say that?”

Hoffner explained, “Luxemburg has the same markings as the other homicides. Why assume that it wasn’t simply bad luck for her and poor timing for us-or, rather, for you, Herr Kriminaldirektor?”

Weigland tried another unconvincing smile. He shifted slightly in his chair. “It’s just Direktornow, Nikolai. Direktor,Kommissar,Oberkommissar.We’ve dispensed with the Kriminalup here.”

Hoffner waited before answering. “That’s convenient.” Weigland showed no reaction. “Then, my mistake, Herr Direktor.”

Weigland’s smile broadened. “No mistake, Nikolai. Just a bit of new information.”

Hoffner nodded once. “Is it also new Polpo policy to take Kripo bodies from the morgue in the middle of the night?”

Weigland was unprepared for the question. Tamshik, however, was not so reticent. He spoke with a clumsy arrogance. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

The look from Braun told Hoffner where the teat lay.

“If,” Braun said calmly, “this is a political case-as the Direktorhas just said-then your confusion, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,seems unwarranted.”

Hoffner continued to look at Weigland. “And the body would simply have found its way back to the morgue by tomorrow morning? Or would my confusion have begun then?”

Braun answered with no hint of condescension: “There are things here you can’t fully understand, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.Luxemburg’s been our case since she got back to Berlin in early November. A Kripo officer happens to find her body in mid-January and you think she’s no longer ours? You must see what little sense that makes.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner. “I’m beginning to see the lack of sense. Did you have a man waiting for her outside the prison gates, Herr Oberkommissar,or does the Polpo leave the distant edges of the empire to someone else?”

Braun said, “Frau Luxemburg was a threat no matter where she was, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.Breslau, Berlin, it makes no difference. That’s why she spent the war inside a cell. The last few months should have made that obvious, even to you.”

“I see.” Hoffner saw how pleased Braun was with his answer. “Funny,” said Hoffner, “but I thought the last few months were all about how the generals and politicians were divvying up what the Kaiser had left behind when he ran off to Holland. I wasn’t aware that one little crippled woman had played so important a role. Unless the game was charades.”

Braun’s jaw tightened. “And I wasn’t aware that officers in the Kripo had sympathies for such extremists.”

“Just for pawns, Herr Oberkommissar,” said Hoffner. Braun said nothing. “May I see the body?”

Braun said, “And what would be the reason for that?”

Hoffner waited. Braun’s expression told him nothing. Hoffner turned to Weigland. “I assume the body will not be coming back to us tomorrow.”

“No,” said Braun.

Hoffner continued to speak to Weigland: “I didn’t know the fourth floor had storage and examination facilities, Herr Direktor.”

“A recent addition,” said Braun.

Hoffner kept his gaze on Weigland. “Can I assume the markings on the back will go untouched?”

Braun said, “Again, I’m afraid we can’t promise that, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.But we’ll do our best. For your case, of course.”

Hoffner finally turned to Braun. “Of course,” said Hoffner. The room became silent as the two men stared at each other.

“Why not simply take her this afternoon?” The voice came from behind them. Hoffner turned. It was Fichte from the corner; he showed no fear at all. “I mean, if it was your case, Herr Oberkommissar,” Fichte continued. “Why not take the body then?”

Hoffner stared at his young Assistent.It was the first time he had felt pride in him.

Braun had also redirected his attention. “A courtesy, Herr Kriminal-Assistent,” he said coolly. “We do, after all, work in the same building.”

“I see,” said Hoffner, retaking the reins. “A courtesy that runs out at, what, seven-thirty, eight o’clock? Is that about the time Frau Luxemburg made her way up to the fourth floor? And, forgive my confusion, Herr Oberkommissar,but how did you know Herr Kriminal-AssistentFichte was down in the morgue if you already had the body?”

For the first time, Braun hesitated. “There were tools we needed-”

“Tools?” Hoffner countered. “I see. And what exactly were you planning to do with our body, Herr Oberkommissar?”

“I find it strange,” said Braun, “that you should have such an interest in this one body when you have yet to make sense of the other five. Surely the pattern should be clear enough, by now?”

“Clear as day,” said Hoffner, “if we could be certain that those bodies wouldn’t go missing in the middle of the night, Herr Oberkommissar.Will our ice room be empty in the next week, in the next two weeks? I’m just asking so as to minimize any confusion.”

Weigland suddenly thumped his hand on the desk. “Let’s have a walk, Nikolai,” he said amiably. “You and I.” He stood and stepped out from behind the desk. “A walk would be good, yes?”

The suggestion was as inappropriate as it was unexpected. Hoffner felt like the class idiot about to be ushered from the room. Tamshik seemed to be enjoying the moment immensely.

Hoffner said in a quiet tone, “If that’s what you’d like, Herr Direktor.”

“Absolutely,” said Weigland as he put a hand on Hoffner’s shoulder and started to move him toward the door. “There should be a pot of coffee at the end of the hall. A coffee would be nice, don’t you think?” Tamshik had the door open. “See if Herr AssistentFichte would like something, as well,” said Weigland as he passed Tamshik.

Hoffner found himself out in the corridor, the door closed behind him. Weigland kept his hand on Hoffner’s shoulder: it helped to maintain the surreal quality to the little jaunt. “Your boys are what, six and ten now, Nikolai?” said Weigland as they slowly made their way down the hall.

“Seven and fifteen, Herr Direktor.”

“That’s right. Seven and fifteen. Very nice.” Weigland continued to walk. “I lost a grandson in the war, you know. Not much older.”

“Yes. I was sorry to hear, Herr Direktor.”

“Yes.” They walked a bit more before Weigland released Hoffner’s shoulder. “This business with Luxemburg,” he said. “Best to let it work itself out, don’t you think? She’s not crucial to your case, and I’m sure whatever Herr Braun feels is of such vital importance is. .” Weigland seemed to lose the thought.

“Of such vital importance?” said Hoffner.

Weigland laughed to himself. He patted another knowing hand on Hoffner’s shoulder. “It’s that mouth of yours that kept you out of the Polpo, you know.”

“It might have been that I never filed an application, Herr Direktor.”

Weigland nodded as if having been caught out. “I suppose that might have had something to do with it, yes.”

They reached the end of the corridor and stepped into a kitchen, of sorts: table, icebox, sink. A kettle of coffee sat on a small iron stove. Weigland found two cups and placed them on the table. The two sat and Weigland poured. “Your father would have made an excellent Polpo officer,” he said as he set the kettle on the table.

Hoffner was unsure where Weigland was going with this. He answered, nonetheless. “He always thought so, Herr Direktor.”

“But then there was all that business with your mother, which made it impossible.” Weigland took a sip. He kept his eyes on the cup as he placed it on the table. “Jewish converts weren’t exactly popular at the time.”

Hoffner watched Weigland for a moment; the man was so obvious in his baiting. Hoffner brought the cup to his lips; he said nothing. This was not a topic he discussed.

Weigland looked up. “You never had any trouble with that, did you? The Jewish issue, I mean. Even if you are technically one of them.”

Hoffner placed his cup on the table. “I was raised a Christian, Herr Direktor.”

“Lutheran?”

“No idea.”

Again, Weigland laughed. “That sounds like your father.” Hoffner nodded. “It was your mother’s idea, I think?” said Weigland. “For his career.”

“I imagine it was.”

Again, Weigland focused on his cup. “We came up at the same time, you know, your father and I.” He continued to stare at the cup until, with a little snap of his head, he looked up at Hoffner. “I had no idea, of course. None of us did. Not until it came out.”

Hoffner took another sip. He had no interest in Weigland’s excuses. Hoffner placed his cup back on the table and said, “So, you want me to let this one go.”

Weigland nudged a bowl of sugar cubes Hoffner’s way. “Go on. Take one. They’re real.” Weigland clawed out three and dropped them into his cup. “We pulled them out of a shipment Pimm was smuggling in from Denmark. He would’ve made a fortune on the black market.”

Hoffner picked out a cube and slipped it into his cup. “I didn’t know the syndicates were Polpo jurisdiction.”

“Neither did Pimm.” Weigland took a fourth cube and popped it in his mouth. “Look, Nikolai,” he said, “you’re making a good name for yourself in the Kripo. You solve this one and the papers will turn you into a nice little celebrity. You’d probably make chief inspector.”

“This one, but without Luxemburg.”

Weigland sucked for a moment on the cube. “Why would you want to drag yourself into all of that?” He shook his head. “Honestly, I have no idea why she had, as you say, the bad luck to run into your maniac. But for you, she’s just one more body. To the rest of Germany, she’s Red Rosa, the little Jewess who tried to bring Lenin’s revolution to Berlin. Your case will get lost in all of that. Braun’s right. You don’t know how these things work. You’re a very capable detective, Nikolai. So why not do what you do well, and leave this other piece to us.”

Hoffner reached over and took two more cubes; he slipped them into his pocket for Georgi. “And if Herr Braun needs another body from the morgue?”

“I’m sure he thought he was doing all of us a favor. Think about it. If your man doesn’t come back in tonight, no one’s the wiser.”

“You really think I wouldn’t have noticed?”

“Fine,” Weigland conceded, “I’m sure you’re just that good.” He waited, then said more emphatically, “This is a touchy business, Nikolai. Ebert’s still not on firm ground. You don’t want to make the same kind of mistake your father did.”

And, like a slap to the face, Hoffner understood. It required every ounce of restraint to answer calmly. “And what mistake was that, Herr Direktor?”

There was nothing comforting in Weigland’s tone: “Understand the situation, Nikolai. Luxemburg, a Jew. Your mother, a Jew. And a Russian, to boot. Times haven’t changed all that much.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. He thought to correct Weigland: Luxemburg had been a Pole. Instead, he pushed his cup across the table and stood. “Thank you for the coffee, Herr Direktor.”

Weigland reached out and grabbed Hoffner’s forearm; the grip was as impressive as Hoffner had imagined it would be. “People make mistakes, Nikolai, and the rest of their lives are filled searching for penance.” Weigland continued to squeeze Hoffner’s arm. “Understand that, and do what I’m asking you to do.”

Hoffner felt the blood pulsing in his hand. He twisted his arm slightly and Weigland released it. “Technically, Herr Direktor,I’m not sure I’m in a position to give or receive absolution.” Not waiting for a response, Hoffner turned and walked back down the hall. He opened the door to the office and poked his head in. “We’re done here, Hans.” He turned to the rest of the room. “Gentlemen.” None of the three said a word.

Unsure for a moment, Fichte stood and moved across to the door. He then turned back with a little bow. “ Oberkommissar,Kommissare.”

Hoffner pulled the door shut behind him, and the two headed back down the stairs. They walked in silence until they reached the courtyard, where Fichte finally managed to get something out. “I’m-sorry for all that, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” said Hoffner.

“I shouldn’t have been trying to impress Lina.”

“No. That was stupid. Don’t do that again.” Hoffner began to button his coat. “As for the rest, you were fine, Hans. You handled yourself very well.”

Fichte’s concern gave way to genuine appreciation. “Thank you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

They passed through the door to the atrium. FliegFlieg was dozing; Hoffner didn’t bother to sign out. Out in the drizzle, the soldiers barely gave them a second glance.

When they had moved out of earshot, Hoffner said, “You didn’t mention anything about today’s discovery, did you?” They continued to walk. “Nothing about the woman in the Rosenthaler station?”

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Fichte was doing his best to keep up. “Absolutely not. Nothing.”

“Good.” They reached the middle of the square. Hoffner stopped and turned to Fichte. “Go home, Hans. Take a cold bath. We start in at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” Fichte was about to head off when he said, “The PKD, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.You know him well, don’t you?”

Hoffner stared at his young Assistent.“Good night, Hans.”

Five minutes later, Hoffner watched as the Peace Column flew past his window, the cab racing him south to Kreuzberg.

The scarf, he thought. I forgot the damn scarf.

TWO

MECHLIN RSEAU

The wail of a siren reached up through the bathroom window and momentarily drowned out the street sounds of early morning. Hoffner tapped his cigarette into the basin, retrieved his razor, and set to work on the stubble just under his chin.

The fires were still burning out in Treptow, where, up until a few days ago, a “unit” of university students had been fighting with epic navet. The last of them had fallen on Tuesday to a roving band of Garde-Kavallerie-Schtzen-Divisionmen who had pulled the three boys out into Weichsel Square and beaten them to death. On a whim, the right-wing thugs-only the uniforms made them soldiers-had then lit up the place. According to the papers, the fire brigades had thus far recovered the remains of two children who had been burned alive. Hoffner listened as the scream of the siren faded to nothing.

“And he still won’t admit it?” said Martha from the bedroom. “Even after all this time.”

Hoffner waited while another siren passed. “Of course not,” he said. For some reason he was having trouble with the angle this morning: his neck was sore. He did what he could, then unplugged the drain. He was wiping off the last of the shaving soap when Martha brushed by him with a pile of clean towels. She placed them in a cupboard by the tub. Hoffner tossed his into the hamper.

“You can use them more than once, you know,” said Martha.

Hoffner picked at a piece of raw skin on his cheek. “I thought I had.”

She retrieved the towel and hung it on a rack. “Did he mean it as a threat, do you think?”

Hoffner continued his examination. “He’s never been that clever.” He splashed some cold water on his face.

“Then why bring it up?”

“Make things right,” he said. “I don’t know. He’s an old man.” Hoffner dried off, put on his shirt, and started in on his tie as Martha knelt down to rub a damp cloth over the tub. He said, “You know, I think he was actually asking for my forgiveness.”

“For something he claims he never did?” She shook her head and pushed herself up. Hoffner said nothing. “You shouldn’t work with those people, Nicki. Especially now.”

“Not my choice.”

Nudging him to the side, she wrung out the cloth in the sink. “Sa-” She caught herself. “Alexander has a match this afternoon. Four o’clock.” She hung the cloth next to the towel. “You should be there.”

The morning had been progressing so nicely, thought Hoffner, talk of Weigland notwithstanding. Now he felt a knot in the pit of his stomach: why was it that she could never understand he would be the last person Sascha would want to see at a match?

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Try hard, Nicki.”

She moved past him and into the hall. Hoffner was left alone to sort out the mess he had made of his tie.

Hans Fichte was waiting for him outside his office when Hoffner got to headquarters. The boy’s face was bloated from last night’s alcohol, and his inhaler seemed to be doing double duty. Fichte was in the midst of a good suck when Hoffner walked up.

“Glad to see you’re here early,” said Hoffner, busying himself with his coat so as to give Fichte a moment to recover. He stepped into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and settled in behind the desk. “Come in, Hans. Close the door.” Fichte did as he was told. “You’re not a drinker, Hans. Try to remember that. Take a seat.”

Fichte moved a stack of papers from a chair. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He sat.

“Your girl get home all right?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Good.” Hoffner watched Fichte’s expression; the boy had no idea what he had signed on for with this Lina. Hoffner wondered if he had been any less thickheaded at Fichte’s age. He hoped not. With a smile, Hoffner leaned back against the wall, his elbows on the chair’s armrests, his hands clasped at his chest, and said easily, “So. What exactly do you think we learned last night?”

Fichte thought for a moment and then said, “That I shouldn’t bring Lina-”

“Yes,” Hoffner cut in impatiently. “We’ve been through all that. What about from upstairs?”

This took greater concentration. “That-this is a political case and we shouldn’t overstep our bounds?”

“Exactly right,” said Hoffner. Fichte’s surprise was instantaneous. “Something wrong?” said Hoffner coyly.

“Well”-Fichte showed a bit more fire-“I didn’t think you-we-would back down so easily.” He waited for a reaction. When Hoffner said nothing, Fichte added, “It is our case, after all.”

“It is, isn’t it.” Hoffner sat staring across at Fichte.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Fichte said, “I’m not sure I understand, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner sat forward. “You need to ask yourself, Hans: Is Luxemburg an element of our case?”

“Of course,” said Fichte.

“According to the Polpo?”

“I suppose not, no.”

The response provoked several quick taps of Hoffner’s fingers on the desk. “And so their focus will be-” He waited for Fichte to complete the thought.

“Luxemburg.”

“And ours?”

Fichte was anxious not to stumble, having come this far. “Everything else. .?” he said tentatively.

“Exactly. For the time being, we’re no longer concerned with Frau Luxemburg, with her forced, angular ruts, or with her second carver. You understand?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.I do.”

“Good. Does this mean she’s no longer an element of the case?”

Without hesitation, Fichte said, “No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,it does not.”

“Excellent, Hans.” Again, Hoffner smiled. “Maybe a drink for you, now and then, isn’t such a bad idea. Full marks this morning.” Fichte looked pleased, if slightly embarrassed. “All right,” said Hoffner. “So what do we do now?”

“We-look at everything else.”

When nothing by way of detail followed, Hoffner explained, “The morgue, Hans. I need you to go down and retrieve that bottle of preserving grease. The one from yesterday’s victim. No one’s to see you leave with it, you understand? And then I want you to meet me outside in the square. Is all of that possible?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Good.”

The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry and Electrochemistry sits on what was once the Prussian Royal Estate of Dahlem in the southwest section of town. It stretches over a thousand acres of prime riding land, and was the gift of one of those unremarkable Junker princes who, recognizing the need for “something useful in this city of ours,” ceded it to a growing Berlin. Naturally he had wanted a racecourse, or perhaps a garden “for young ladies to stroll about at their leisure,” but in the end prudence had won out. He had been happy enough to let someone else make the decision, especially when they had come to him for a little cash for the project. “Land is the greatest treasure,” he had said: it was up to the Prussian Ministry to come up with anything else. As it turned out, one member of the Ministry had voted for the racecourse; it happened to be the prince’s cousin. The rest had opted for a different kind of “useful.” The doors to the Institute had opened in October of 1912, and since then the place had been home to some of the more innovative breakthroughs in German chemical engineering and physics. Many attributed its success to the man at the top. The Direktor,however, took little credit. He had always enjoyed horse racing himself and sometimes wondered if they had all not somehow missed out on a wonderful opportunity.

Getting to the Institute from Alexanderplatz requires two transfers, first on the No. 3 to Potsdamer Platz, then on the Nord-End 51 to Shmargendorf Depot, and finally on the No. 22A, which stops directly in front of the university’s central library. Students who fall asleep on the bus after a late night slumming it “up east” find themselves out in Grunewald before they know it, at which point most of them have no choice but to spend the night in the park and curse fate for their misadventure. Hoffner and Fichte took a cab.

“I thought about university, at one point,” said Fichte as they moved across the plaza toward the Institute’s entrance. It was a massive building of five floors, with an ersatz Greek front of four thick columns and pediment tacked onto the faade; odder still was the circular tower that seemed to be standing sentry duty at its far right. Its roof resembled a vast Schutzi helmet-made of Thuringian slate-along with its very own imperial prong rising to the sky: an unflinching Teuton at the gates of the Temple Athena, thought Hoffner. So much for chemistry. “Not much of a student, though,” Fichte continued. “More what my father wanted me to do, I suppose. Luckily the war came along and, well, you know the rest.”

Hoffner nodded, not having been listening, and began to mount the steps. He had to remind himself that yammering enthusiasm was a part of the Fichte-away-from-the-office days. He watched as the boy raced by to open the door for him.

According to the wood-carved listing in the entry hall, Herr Professor DoktorUwe Kroll was to be found on the third floor. Hoffner remembered roughly where Kroll’s office was; even so, it took them a good ten minutes to locate Kroll in the lab across from his office.

Kroll was wearing a white lab coat, and sat staring intently at a slide beneath his microscope when the two men stepped into the room. There was nothing at all to distinguish Kroll: he projected the perfect image of the scientist, except without the eyeglasses. Fichte had always associated myopia with science. He estimated Kroll to be in his late forties.

“That was quick, Nikolai,” said Kroll, still perched in concentration. “I didn’t expect you for another half-hour.”

“We took a cab.”

“Ah,” said Kroll, looking up. “The deep pockets of the Kriminalpolizei.”

Hoffner introduced Fichte.

Kroll said, “You should know, Herr Kriminal-Assistent,that your Detective Inspector would have made a pretty fair chemist himself. Didn’t like the symmetry, though, wasn’t that it, Nikolai? Too much coherence.” Kroll held out his hand. “All right, let’s have a look at it, this great mysterious goop of yours that’s too complex to be seen by my esteemed colleagues at police headquarters.”

Fichte produced the bottle and handed it to Kroll, who brought it up to the light and watched as the contents oozed slowly from side to side. Kroll then brought it to his lap, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed. “You said on the telephone that it was used to preserve flesh. Are you sure it wasn’t used as an inhibitor?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Hoffner.

“As something to keep the elements of decay-animals, moisture, that sort of thing-from getting to the skin. Rather than as an agent that works withthe skin. You see what I’m saying?”

“A repellent,” said Hoffner.

“Exactly. That would make my work much easier. On the other hand, if it is something that actually interacts with the flesh and creates a reaction, then it becomes far more complicated.”

“And your guess is?”

Kroll looked over at Fichte with a grin. “And now you see where the two of us go our separate ways, Herr Kriminal-Assistent.No guesses, Nikolai. I can let you know in a few days.” When Hoffner nodded, Kroll placed the jar on his table and said, “And am I right in thinking you’ll be the one to get in touch with me?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes,’” repeated Kroll knowingly. “Must be interesting times at Kripo headquarters, these days.”

Hoffner waited before answering. “Yes.”

“‘Yes,’” Kroll repeated again. “And should anyone come calling from the Alex, I know nothing about this little jar. Is that right?”

“Is that a guess, Uwe?” Without giving Kroll a chance to answer, Hoffner added, “You see, Hans? Even a chemist can show the makings of a pretty fair detective.”

Out on the plaza, the rain had returned as freezing drizzle; it slapped at the face like tiny pieces of glass, but did little to dampen Fichte’s enthusiasm.

“You saw what he did?” said Fichte eagerly. “When he opened the bottle?”

Reluctantly, Hoffner said, “Yes, Hans. I saw. He sniffed at it.” Hoffner pulled his collar up to his neck: how difficult was it to remember a scarf?

“You see,” said Fichte, his coat still unbuttoned. “I have an instinct for these things.”

“An instinct. That must be it. Then tell me, Nostradamus, where are we heading next?”

“KaDeWe’s.” Fichte spoke with absolute certainty. He brushed a bit of moisture from his nose. “To see about the gloves.” Hoffner nearly stopped in his tracks as Fichte continued, “I checked on the body this morning-number five, in the morgue. The gloves were missing. The Polpo doesn’t know about them, so I assumed you’d taken them. KaDeWe is the best place in town for lace.”

And just like that, thought Hoffner, Fichte was actually becoming a detective.

“ Adarker beige and a powdered blue,” said the man behind the counter. He stared across at the woman who looked to be incapable of making a decision. She pulled the glove snug onto her hand and gazed at it in the mirror. She flexed her fingers and then reangled her head. All the while, the man stood with a sliver of smile sewn onto his lips. After nearly half a minute he glanced furtively at Hoffner, who had edged closer to the glass. “Just another minute, mein Herr,” he said impatiently, but with no change in his expression. “Thank you, mein Herr.”