Текст книги "Rosa"

Автор книги: Jonathan Rabb

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“And a strong will,” said Tamshik. “Which the boy has.” He looked at Hoffner. “Something he shares with your Alexander.”

Hoffner nodded. He was not quite sure how to answer. “Alexander is very dedicated,” he said.

“That much is clear.” He turned to Sascha. “Your footwork is most impressive, young Hoffner.”

“Thank you, mein Herr.”

“Herr Kommissar,” Hoffner corrected.

“Herr Kommissar,” said Sascha.

“Not at all,” said Tamshik. “A pleasure to give such a compliment.”

Reinhold spoke up: “If I could watch or train with someone like you, Hoffner, I’m sure I would become much better.”

Hoffner senior wondered how many versions of the script Tamshik had worked on before coming up with this one. At least Reinhold was remembering his lines. That notwithstanding, the prospect of a direct link between his own son and a Polpo surrogate-no matter how junior-hardly sat well with Hoffner, especially after last night. He was about to make some excuse, when Sascha spoke up.

“All right,” said Sascha casually. “If you want. You can watch.”

The answer stunned Hoffner.

“You mean it?” said Reinhold, equally dumbfounded.

“Why not?” said Sascha. “Maybe you’ll pick up a thing or two. I don’t know.”

“Thank you, Hoffner,” said Reinhold eagerly. “Thank you, indeed. I’ll certainly try. I’ll give it my best effort.” He was back on script.

“That’s very good of you,” said Tamshik to Sascha. He turned to Hoffner. “You have a fine boy there.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner, still mystified by Sascha’s response. “I do.”

Almost at once, Tamshik found a reason to break up the little gathering: mission accomplished, Hoffner imagined. The good-byes were brief. Out in the corridor, as father and son headed for the changing rooms, Hoffner said quietly, “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

“What what was all about?”

“The sudden generosity of Herr Alexander Hoffner.”

“The what?” Sascha said coolly.

Hoffner spoke more deliberately: “Little Krieger? Your new training partner?”

“I said he could watch.”

“Yes, I heard. You don’t have five minutes for your own brother, who asks about it every day, but for Krieger, suddenly he could ‘pick up a thing or two’?”

“I said he could watch,” Sascha repeated.

Hoffner heard the first strain of irritation in his son’s voice. “You know what I’m saying.”

Sascha stopped as they reached the entryway. He looked at his father: the boy was well beyond irritation. “Are you joking?” he said defiantly. When Hoffner failed to answer, Sascha said, “I did it because I thought that’s what you wanted me to do, Father.”

It was the last thing Hoffner had expected to hear. “What Iwanted you to do?”

“You arejoking.” When Hoffner again said nothing, Sascha said, “What did you think, Father? That I actually cared about some first-year stmper? We went over so you could make good with your Kripo friend. I thought you’d be happy.”

Hoffner had no idea what to answer. He was trying to figure out which was worse: the fact that his son thought that he had been using him, or Sascha’s conviction that going along had been his only way to please his father. Neither left Hoffner with much to say. “He’s not Kripo,” said Hoffner. “He’s Polpo.”

The word seemed to spark an immediate interest. “The fellows who got rid of the Reds?”

“Among others. Yes.”

“And he’s a friend of yours?”

The sudden level of enthusiasm troubled Hoffner. “No. I just wanted to know what he was doing here.”

As quickly as it had come, Sascha’s fascination vanished. “And that’s the reason you came today?” he said with renewed venom.

It took Hoffner a moment to follow the boy’s train of thought. “No, of course not,” he said, trying to dismiss the absurdity. “I had no idea he’d be here.”

Sascha stared at his father. He then said, “I have to go.” He started for the door.

Hoffner moved to block his path. “I can wait. Take you home.” The silence returned. “If you like.”

Sascha’s eyes had gone cold. He said, “Today’s Friday, Father. There’s a concert. After that, I’m at Kroll’s house for the night. Mother knows all about it.”

Hoffner nodded as if he had just now remembered: he had never been told. “I saw his father today,” he said for some reason. When Sascha continued to stare at him blankly, Hoffner said almost apologetically, “You know you don’t have to help with that Krieger boy, now. No reason for you to waste your time on some stmper.” The word sounded so forced on his tongue.

In a strangely detached tone, Sascha said, “No, I think I’d like to, Father. Who knows? Could be fun.” He brought the bag back up to his shoulder. “But I really do have to go now. Kroll’s waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you for coming, Father.”

Before Hoffner could answer, Sascha had sidestepped his way to the door and was pushing his way through. Hoffner was left to face the corridor alone.

Idiot, he thought as he began to walk. Pushed him right into Tamshik’s hands, didn’t I? Sometimes Hoffner wondered if it might not have been better never to have met Martha at all.

ASCOMYCETE 4

It was Wednesday when he finally got back to headquarters. The weekend had disappeared into a Schwarzschild black hole of family commitments: Martha’s sisters on Saturday, his mother on Sunday. Sascha had been present for both events and had worn his potential Tamshik-connection like a light summer cardigan: casually draped over his shoulder in a posture of smug defiance. Hoffner had sat through the long afternoons hoping for a ring of the telephone. It had never come. Monday and Tuesday had found him at the Reichstadt Court giving expert testimony and presentation of evidence for three separate cases. By himself, Hoffner had sent two men to the gallows. The third, a minor trafficker in Pimm’s organization, had gotten off with a slap on the wrist. Evidently, Weigland enjoyed his sugar cubes more than he was letting on.

In the meantime, Fichte had found nothing among the various stores that dealt with Monsieur Edgar Troimpel et Fils; not that Hoffner had been expecting anything. The trade lines between the former Central and Entente powers were just now beginning to resurface: French cheese was finding its way to Salzburg, Umbrian wine to Cologne. Given that everyone’s focus was on Paris and the peace talks, the lace market remained slightly less pressing. On the helpful side, Hoffner’s fawning friend at KaDeWe-Herr Taubmann-had been kind enough to take a stab at when the gloves had been made: kind enough once Hoffner had ordered a single pair for himself. They had cost him nearly half a week’s salary. He would, of course, cancel the order in a few day’s time. Still, the money was out of pocket until then, but the information had been worth it.

Herr Taubmann had estimated that, given the lower-than-usual quality of the dye, the gloves had been produced in the last six months: the war had forced everyone to cut corners, which meant that the gloves had been purchased no earlier than the summer of 1918. The question of where was equally limited: before the war, Troimpel et Fils had sold in Berlin, Milan, London, and Paris, and, of course, Brussels and Bruges, but given Belgium’s fate during the first few weeks of the war, export to friend or foe had been out of the question. A pair or two might have been brought back to Berlin by a soldier on leave, but the chances of an officer’s gift-and a rather pricey one at that-ending up on the hands of, at best, a middle-class girl were beyond remote.

The gloves had been purchased in Belgium, that much was clear. And, given the girl’s unique characteristics when compared with those of the other victims-her age, her clothes, the preserving grease-Hoffner was guessing that she, too, had originated elsewhere. He had sent out a wire to both the Brussels and Bruges police on Monday before leaving for the courts.

On the unlikely chance that he was wrong, however, Hoffner had sent Fichte out this morning to the Missing and Displaced Persons Office in Hessiche Strasse. For some reason, the powers that be had decided to set up the bureau directly across the street from the morgue: someone’s idea of efficiency, no doubt. There was still the possibility that a photo or description of the girl had come in sometime in the last six weeks: a slim one, thought Hoffner, but at least it was giving Fichte a chance to familiarize himself with one of the more depressing offices in town, and one of the busiest since the revolution.

Hoffner picked up the telephone and dialed the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute. The KWI operator was infamous for misdirecting calls, and Hoffner spent a good ten minutes waiting for her to find the right extension. He was still adrift in static when a messenger appeared at his door, holding a small envelope. Hoffner ushered the boy into his office just as Kroll was picking up the line.

“Uwe Kroll here.”

Hoffner took the envelope, then motioned for the boy to wait. “Uwe, hello. Any news?” There was an unexpected silence on the other end. “It’s Nikolai.”

“Yes,” said Kroll. “I know who it is.” Again, Kroll seemed content to leave it at that.

“Is this a bad time?” Hoffner said skeptically.

“You’re calling about the material.”

Hoffner stated the obvious: “Yes.”

Kroll paused. “You’re going to need to come down to the Institute, Nikolai. All right?”

There was something odd in Kroll’s voice. Hoffner had been bringing him goops and oozes to analyze for years, and not one of them had ever provoked more than a playful curiosity. This, however, had the ring of seriousness to it. Hoffner considered pressing for more, but knew better. “All right,” he said. “An hour?”

“Fine,” said Kroll. “I’ll see you then.”

Hoffner hung up and he turned to the boy. “From the wire room?”

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“No?. . Interesting.” Hoffner peered at his own name written across the front of the envelope. There was no return address, no office number, just the name. The boy started to go. “Wait,” said Hoffner. The boy planted himself by the door as Hoffner opened the envelope. The note was brief, and to the point. It read: You should go back to the flat, Detective Inspector.

It was signed “K” and nothing else.

Hoffner flipped the card over and scanned it more closely. There was nothing distinctive to it: a card to be found in any stationers in Berlin. He rubbed his finger across the ink. Luxemburg’s flat, he thought. He felt the little ridges of raised cloth. Someone other than the landlady knew he had been there.

“How are you, Franz?” said Hoffner, his eyes still on the card.

The boy seemed genuinely pleased at the recognition. “Very well, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner had always held a soft spot for these runners, the boy messengers who were as old a tradition at the Alex as any he could recall. The installation of telephones-along with the recent child labor laws-had helped to thin their numbers, but for boys with no hope of schooling beyond the age of nine or ten, this was one of the few chances they had to get themselves off the streets. There were even a few beds up in the attic where the most promising, and most desperate, spent their nights.

Hoffner gazed over. He knew this boy well; he had worked with him before: always the same placid stare. Hoffner imagined that Franz could have blended in to any background. The boy saw Hoffner staring at him; his expression remained unchanged. Hoffner found that rather impressive. Going on a year, guessed Hoffner, maybe longer. A few more months, and Franz might find himself assisting a junior clerk, or even in filing, if none of the syndicates had lured him away by then. “So, tell me, Franz-who received the note?”

“The security desk, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“From whom?”

The boy was momentarily at a loss. “I don’t know, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.I could find out.”

“Yes, why don’t you do that.” Before the boy was through the door, Hoffner stopped him again. “Just to the security desk and back. And not too many questions. If they don’t remember who brought it in, they don’t remember. All right?”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Good.” Hoffner nodded him out and then sat back. He again turned to the note.

There was nothing aggressive in its tone, nothing leading, or mocking. It was a simple suggestion. Though neat, the handwriting was clearly that of a man. The swas too compressed, and the Ktoo severe, to have come from a woman’s pen. More than that, the ink was thick, the point heavy, not like the delicate line produced by a woman’s narrower nib. There was also nothing of the pathological in the script. Hoffner had seen too many messages from maniacs not to be able to discern the subtle shadings in the angle and height of the letters. The language was also wrong for that. No, this had come from an educated man-no doubt a secretive one, from his method of delivery-but aside from that, Hoffner had little to go on. The phrase “Detective Inspector” struck him as odd. There might even have been something encouraging in that.

Hoffner stood and moved over to the map. He located Luxemburg’s flat and stared at the little street for nearly a minute. He then looked up at the area where his pins were sprouting: over six kilometers away. There was no connection. He was about to return to his desk when he realized that he had yet to put a pin into the spot along the Landwehr Canal where Luxemburg’s body had been discovered. He picked one up from the box on the shelf and held it in his fingers as he traced the canal’s winding path. It cut across most of the city: impossible, naturally, to determine where the body had gone in. What, then, was the point of marking where it had come out, he thought. He continued to stare. Maybe that was the point.

The boy reappeared, slightly out of breath. He stood waiting at the door until Hoffner motioned him in. “They think a man with a beard, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“They think?”

“It was busy, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.The letter was dropped at the desk. The Sergeant thinks he saw a man with a beard around the time it came in.”

“Nothing else?” said Hoffner.

“No, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner nodded slowly, then said, “All right, Franz. You can go.”

The boy bobbed his head in a quick bow, and was almost out the door, when Hoffner again stopped him. “Wait.” Hoffner reached into his pocket and pulled out a pfennig. He held it out to the boy. The men of the Kripo were strictly forbidden to give taschgeldto the boys, but Hoffner had never seen the harm in a little pocket money. Franz hesitated; he, too, knew the rules. Hoffner brought his finger up to his lips as if to say it would be their secret. Again the boy hesitated; he then took the coin and, just as quickly, was gone.

Hoffner turned back to the map and dropped the pin into its box. Another time, he thought. He checked his watch and, placing the card in his pocket, grabbed his coat and headed for the stairs.

This time, Kroll was in his office when Hoffner knocked. A quick “Come” ushered him in: Kroll looked up from behind his desk and immediately stood. From the abruptness of the movement, he seemed oddly tense. “Hello, Nikolai,” he said as he stepped out to extend a hand. It was all far more formal than Hoffner had expected. Not sure why, and not wanting to break the mood, Hoffner took his hand.

“Uwe.”

No less forced, Kroll said, “We saw your Alexander, Friday. Charming boy, Nikolai. Really. He’s grown into quite a young man.”

For a fleeting moment, Hoffner wondered if the tone on the telephone, and now here, had something to do with Sascha’s visit to the Krolls. Had something been said? Was there a reason for the two fathers to talk? That would be unpleasant. Worse than that, Hoffner couldn’t for the life of him remember Kroll’s boy’s name. There was no way to return the compliment and move on quickly. “Thank you,” said Hoffner. “Yes. Sascha couldn’t stop talking about the lovely evening he had.”

“Good, good. Johannes really enjoys the time they spend together.”

“Johannes,” said Hoffner, doing his best not to show his relief. “Yes. I haven’t seen him in years. Also a wonderful boy.”

“Yes. . Thank you.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Finally, in a moment of sudden recollection, Hoffner blurted out, “The Deutscher Rundflug.The four of us went to the opening to see Knig fly. My old partner.”

“Yes,” said Kroll, remembering eagerly.

Hoffner had no inkling why they had slipped into this bizarre little scene. He had known Uwe for far too long. Nonetheless, he continued to watch as his friend nodded uncomfortably: it quickly became apparent that Kroll’s behavior had nothing to do with either of the boys. Finally, Hoffner said, “The material, Uwe. Is there something I should know?”

Kroll stopped nodding. “The material,” he repeated distractedly. “Yes.” He pointed to a chair and headed back behind his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat, Nikolai.”

Hoffner sat. Kroll sat, his mood more serious. “About the material. I ran a few tests.” He seemed unsure how to explain what he had found. “It’s military.”

This was the one thing Hoffner had hoped not to hear. “Military,” he repeated.

“Yes. Used during the war and, not surprisingly, developed here, at the Institute. There are files that are very”-Kroll tried to find the right word-“selective. I haven’t been able to look at all of them, but I’ve made an appointment for us to go up and see the Direktor.I’ve told him who you are, the work you do. He’s agreed to talk with us, but with the understanding that any information will remain strictly. .” Again Kroll had trouble finishing the thought.

“Selective,” said Hoffner.

“Yes. Exactly.” Kroll stood and motioned to the door. “Shall we?”

Hoffner hesitated. “You mean now?”

“Yes.” Kroll was already out from behind the desk. “He’s expecting us. Please.”

The glass on the fifth floor office had the word DIREKTOR stenciled across it: Kroll knocked, then stepped through to an anteroom fitted with desk, chairs, and several filing cabinets. A plump woman, with her hair pulled back in the tightest bun Hoffner had ever seen, was seated behind the desk: he was amazed that the skin had yet to tear on her forehead. She stood.

“Good afternoon, Frau Griebner,” said Kroll, with a quick click of the heels: his anxiety had mutated into a strict Germanic decorum.

“Good afternoon, Herr DoktorKroll.” She offered an equally perfect nod: her manner was as efficient as her hair. She took no notice of Hoffner. “I will tell the Herr Direktoryou are here.” She stepped out from behind her desk and disappeared through a second door. Almost immediately she returned. “The Herr Direktorwill see you now, Herr Doktor.” Hoffner followed Kroll into the office.

The room was large and filled with lamps, though the light seemed inclined to shine on only a few select areas. The rest of the space lay in half-shadows, less the result of poor positioning than of an ominous afternoon sky that hovered outside the four vast windows. The gloom seemed to be drawing the light out through the glass: Hoffner wondered if closing the drapes might, in fact, have helped to brighten the place up.

The Direktorhad done his best to construct a small preserve of light for himself across the room. He got to his feet. “Herr DoktorKroll,” he said. “Hello, hello.” He came out into the shadows to greet them. The Direktorwas much younger than Hoffner had expected, a man of perhaps forty with a somewhat unruly moustache beneath a wide nose and basset hound eyes. Even more unexpected was the remarkable smile that seemed so out of place in the impressive, though dour surroundings.

“Herr Direktor,” said Kroll. “Allow me to present Herr Kriminal-KommissarNikolai Hoffner. Herr Hoffner, this is Herr Professor DoktorAlbert Einstein.”

Hoffner recalled Kroll having mentioned Einstein once or twice, over the years. The man had come up with some theory that Kroll had described as either ludicrous or genius. Hoffner couldn’t remember which. The three shook hands and retreated to the desk. Einstein did his best to expand the pocket of light; even so, Hoffner and Kroll were forced to lean in over the edge of the desk in order to escape the shadows.

Einstein reached down and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out a thin file with the word RESTRICTED in bold type across its front. There was also a long paragraph describing the penalties for disseminating the material, written in much smaller print below. “This is for a criminal case?” said Einstein.

“Yes, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner.

Einstein nodded. “I’ve always been fascinated by criminal cases. They’re like little puzzles. Quite a bit like what we spend our time on.”

“Except no one ends up dead, Herr Direktor.”

Again Einstein nodded. “How little you know about science, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.” He paused, then added, “Anyway, you wanted to hear about something that was meant to be helpful on the battlefield.” He slid the dossier over to Hoffner. “It was called Ascomycete 4. One wonders what happened to numbers one through three.” Einstein was the only one to enjoy the joke.

Hoffner took the folder and opened it. Kroll quickly interrupted: “That’s all very technical stuff, Nikolai. Formulations and so on.” Kroll reached over and flipped to the last few pages. “The gist of the thing is at the back. This bit here.” Again, Hoffner began to read, and again Kroll cut in. “It was developed for trench fatalities,” said Kroll. “And, on occasion, no-man’s-land retrievals.”

Hoffner looked up. Evidently there would be no need for reading. “For men already dead,” said Hoffner, inviting more of the lesson.

“Yes,” said Kroll. “During the beginning of the war-and later on, during the worst of the fighting-it was impossible to transport the dead back to the field hospitals in order to prepare them for burial. Too many bodies were rotting on the front. Not only was contagion an issue, but morale, as well. Men needed to know that if they went down, at least an entire corpse would be returned to their families. The military decided that it needed something to keep the bodies as fresh as possible so that, during those periods of isolation, they could minimize the distraction and disease produced by the corpses, and also treat the dead with as much decency as possible. So they came to the Institute.”

“And”-Hoffner scanned the front page-“to DoktorsMeinhof and Klingman.”

“Two very capable chemists,” said Kroll. “They came up with the solution. Meinhof is now in Vienna, at the Bielefeld Institute. Klingman passed away about a year ago.”

“So how did you know it was this”-again Hoffner read-“Ascomycete 4 from the sample I gave you?”

“Actually,” said Kroll, “it didn’t take me that long. Once I separated out the components, there were trace elements of an unguent I’d seen only once before. It was in a sample that I’d been asked to analyze during the war.”

“A military request?” said Hoffner.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“You made the connection and it brought you to the restricted files.”

Now Einstein was impressed. “You’re very good at this, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“No, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner, “just impatient.” He turned to Kroll. “And the components were the same?”

“Identical.”

Hoffner flipped to the back of the file; he scanned a few of the paragraphs. Kroll had been right to give him the condensed version. “And this compound,” said Hoffner. “It’s now available outside the military?”

“That’s where the difficulty lies,” said Kroll. “All of this is still under lock and key here at the Institute. More than that, the research was discontinued in the middle of 1917. They stopped producing it. I won’t ask you where you got your sample.”

“Stopped?” said Hoffner. “Why?”

“Because they discovered that too much of it, if inhaled, acted as a very potent hallucinatory stimulant.”

This seemed to perk Einstein up a bit. “Not a bad little side effect, eh, Kriminal-Kommissar?”

Kroll continued: “Once the men on the line discovered its other use-well, how can you blame them, really? The General Staff did its best to restrict access-select doctors were the only ones who could get hold of the stuff-but then it no longer served the purpose for which it had been designed.”

“For a time,” added Einstein, “it actually became more popular than morphine. You can only imagine the embarrassment Meinhof and Klingman went through.”

“I’m sure,” said Hoffner as he tried to digest all of the information.

Einstein said to Kroll, “You know, it just now occurs to me that that was probably the same problem you were looking into when they gave you the original unguent to analyze. The hallucinogenic side effects.”

Kroll nodded, considering it for the first time himself. “That’s probably true, Herr Direktor.I never thought of that.”

“Yes,” said Hoffner, interrupting the riveting sidebar. “But would they have destroyed the stock they still had?”

Einstein said, “Oh, I doubt that. Too much potential as a weapon, don’t you think? The chance to develop it into a hallucinatory gas, that sort of thing.”

Unfortunately, Hoffner knew Einstein was right. “And would one slathering keep a body fresh indefinitely?”

“That was another problem,” said Kroll. “It had to be reapplied quite frequently. Hence the large quantities and the hallucinations.”

“How frequently?” said Hoffner.

“ Veryfrequently,” said Kroll. “At least two or three times a day.”

“So, how much of the stuff would one need to keep a body fresh for, say, six weeks?”

“Six weeks?” Kroll said incredulously. “Not possible. You’re talking liters and liters. Vast amounts.”

Hoffner was pleased to hear it. “So nothing your average officer would have been able to ferret away?”

“Impossible,” said Kroll with complete certainty. “It was designed to insulate the flesh for two, maybe three days, and that with constant supervision. And even that became impractical. Too many bodies to manage. The whole thing proved to be a disaster.”

Hoffner sat back and again let the information settle. At least the lone army psychopath was no longer a possibility, not that the alternative was all that much more appealing. “And you’re sure that what I gave you is this same compound?”

“Absolutely. The chemical makeup is unique. It’s like a signature. Meinhof and Klingman might just as well have attached their thumbprints to it. It’s Ascomycete 4, Nikolai. No question.”

The three men sat in silence for nearly half a minute. Hoffner could tell that Einstein wanted to ask a few questions of his own, but was choosing not to venture out of his own realm. Maybe the positioning of the light was more than just bad happenstance. Insulation could be so very comforting.

Hoffner spoke to Einstein: “I could demand all the relevant files, Herr Direktor.This is, after all, a Kripo investigation.”

“Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,you could, but then I would have to get in touch with the Office of the General Staff-” Einstein stopped himself. “There is still an Office of the General Staff, isn’t there?”

“Yes, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner.

“Good,” said Einstein, mildly relieved. “One doesn’t always know these days, what with the revolution. Anyway, given the peculiarity of this case, I’m not sure you’d want them to hear that you’re looking into it, just yet.” The knowing smile returned. “I could be wrong, but that’s up to you, of course.”

Hoffner nodded. “Point well taken, Herr Direktor.”

Again, the room grew quiet. Einstein said, “I imagine this only complicates your case, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

“Yes, Herr Direktor,” said Hoffner. “It does.”

Einstein nodded coyly. “That’s not always such a bad thing.”

“I know, Herr Direktor.But right now it doesn’t make things any easier.”

The air outside was pleasantly dry as Hoffner lit a cigarette and stepped onto the plaza. It made the cold all the more piercing and gave the smoke a certain crispness as it raced down into his lungs.

Kroll had been nice enough to run through the remaining files with him, but there had really been nothing more to see. The names of the officers on the General Staff had been omitted, as had any firms that had been used to transport or produce the compound in any large quantities. It was all just science, and that, as Kroll had pointed out, was probably of little use to the Kripo.

“Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Hoffner turned around. To his complete surprise, he saw Hans Fichte heading toward him. Hoffner tried to remember if he had left a note for Fichte back at the Alex. He knew he hadn’t, which made Fichte’s appearance all the more puzzling.

Fichte was eating something out of a brown bag. He tossed both it and the bag into a dustbin, and quickly made his way over. “Herr Kriminal-Kommissar,” he repeated.

“Hans. What are you doing here?”

“They told me you were with the Direktor.I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Or interrupt your lunch.”

“That, too.”

Hoffner stared at Fichte. “So. . Are you going to explain how you found me here, or do I have to guess?”

Fichte’s face brightened. “A wire came in for you back at the Alex. It was marked ‘urgent.’ On the off chance, I checked the switchboard logs to see if you had made any telephone calls today. There was the one to Herr DoktorKroll late this morning, so. .” Fichte left it at that.

Hoffner reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and offered one to Fichte. “Nicely done, Hans.” Fichte took the cigarette; Hoffner used his own to light it, and they began to walk. “So what’s so urgent?”

Fichte coughed several times, unaccustomed to the quality of the tobacco. “Two things. First, a wire came in from Bruges. They’re putting through a call to you at one o’clock this afternoon. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

The Belgians were also full of surprises, thought Hoffner: he had been hoping to hear from them by next Monday at the earliest. “So, nothing at Missing Persons?” The two continued across the plaza.

“Pleasant little spot,” said Fichte. “They actually laughed when I mentioned Brussels. They’re dealing with close to twelve hundred Berliners who’ve gone missing since November. I had no idea.”

“Then let’s hope our girl isn’t from Berlin.” Fichte nodded and Hoffner continued, “You said two things.”