In fact, something else already had. The week before he had been approached by an editor at the Münchener Post who had seen his drawings in Das Neue Deutsche Bild. The Post would pay double what Erwin had been paying him.
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Sophie. She could see he wasn’t sure. ‘Take it,’ she said.
‘What about you?’ he said.
‘What about me?’
‘I like working together,’ he said.
‘I like it too,’ she said. ‘But don’t let that get in the way. Your drawings are wonderful. More people should see them. And they will when they’re in the Post.’
‘I don’t know if I like the idea of more people seeing my drawings.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just thinking ahead. What’s to come.’
‘Don’t think ahead,’ she said. ‘We’ll find out what’s coming soon enough. Take the job.’ He hesitated still. But von Plottwietz had made the decision for him.
Von Plottwietz had been leaned on by Party members objecting to Sophie’s stories. Despite her claims to be ‘just reporting the facts’, she had described their rallies as ‘disorderly’ and described Hitler as a ‘fanatic nationalist’. She had quoted other politicians critical of his economic ideas and his anti-Semitism. ‘Those are the facts,’ she said.
‘There have been threats against you, against me, and against the paper,’ said Erwin.
‘Threats?’
‘Phone calls. Letters,’ said Erwin.
Sophie agreed to allow Erwin to go through the story she was working on. He began crossing out words and phrases. ‘Not unruly – an unruly crowd. Say enthusiastic. An enthusiastic audience.’
‘So throwing bottles, beating up people is enthusiastic?’ This was the last thing Erwin heard her say before the office erupted in a ball of fire.
THE INVESTIGATION
‘Two dead,’ said Hermann Gruber. He had been at his desk when the call came in. ‘And three injured; one badly.’ By the time Willi Geismeier arrived on the scene, the ambulance had left with the injured and the police had erected barriers to keep the public away. The firemen were rolling up their hoses. Upstairs a police photographer was taking pictures.
‘A bomb?’ said Willi, looking around. The windows were blown out; the furniture was mostly in splinters. Sheets covered two bodies on the floor. There was blood all over the walls and floor. ‘What do we know?’
‘That guy over there’ – Hermann looked in his notepad – ‘Walther Hinzig, a pressman, saw two men open the door and throw something into the room. He didn’t see what it was. It was probably a hand grenade, judging by the damage. But he got a look at the men that threw it.’
Walther Hinzig sat dazed on the edge of a desk while being tended to by a uniformed policeman. He had been shielded from the blast by the typesetting machine, but he still had cuts on his face and body from flying debris. His shirt was shredded and he was covered with blood.
Erwin Czieslow was dead, as was a young messenger. Blood was seeping through the sheets covering them. Sophie Auerbach was in critical condition with serious head and body wounds. She had been taken with the other two injured people to the hospital. She wasn’t expected to live.
Hermann went to the hospital. The two injured were able to talk, but neither of them had seen anything. Beate Kerner, the receptionist, had been at the back of the room, far from her desk. ‘Otherwise, I …’ she said. Her jaw began to tremble, and she pulled the sheet up over her face and sobbed softly. ‘My God. Oh, my God.’
Ludwig Bieberbach was sure he knew who had done it. ‘The Commies,’ he said. ‘They’ll do anything to keep people from knowing the truth.’
‘How many were there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you know the perpetrator or perpetrators?’
‘No.’
‘Had you ever seen them before?’
‘I didn’t see them at all. How many were there?’
Hermann then spoke to a surgeon leaving the operating theatre. ‘How is Sophie Auerbach?’ he said. ‘Is she going to survive?’
‘I think she will,’ said the doctor. ‘She suffered a serious concussion. And other serious injuries, some damage to her lungs, maybe her liver. A broken arm, leg, and ribs, and many cuts and contusions. But the swelling in her brain is subsiding. It remains to be seen whether she will regain her sight.’
‘When can I talk to her?’ said Hermann.
‘She’s still unconscious. And that’s best for her, at the moment. If everything goes well and she regains consciousness, I’d say three or four days at least until she can talk.’
‘What do you think caused her injuries, Doctor?’
‘Obviously an explosion,’ said the surgeon. ‘You know that already, don’t you?’
‘Were you in the war, Doctor?’
‘I was. I was a medic and then a doctor.’
‘And did you see such injuries in the war?’
‘A mortar attack would cause similar injuries.’
‘Or a hand grenade?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
Back at his desk, Hermann wrote up a summary report. The next morning he went to Walther Hinzig to interview him. Walther was staying with his grown daughter. He was still in shock and had little to add to what Hermann had already heard. He couldn’t remember much of anything. ‘You saw two men,’ said Hermann. ‘Can you describe them?’
‘Not really,’ said Walther.
‘How old?’ said Hermann.
Walther didn’t know.
‘What did they look like?’ said Hermann.
‘Average, I guess,’ said Walther. He kept looking around the room as though he were trying to orient himself.
‘Hair color?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Complexion?’
‘I don’t know. Fair, I guess.’
‘Who do you think would want to do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you think it was political?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ said Walther.
The next day Hermann decided to go back to the hospital to have a look at Sophie Auerbach. She was in the intensive-care ward, separated by screens from the patients to the right and left of her. A man was sitting on a chair beside her bed. He was drawing her portrait.
‘Who are you?’ said Hermann.
‘Who are you?’ said Maximilian.
‘Police.’ Hermann showed his identification card.
‘I’m Sophie’s friend,’ said Maximilian. ‘We worked together at the paper.’
‘By friend you mean …?’
‘Yes.’
‘You worked at the paper, but you don’t work there anymore?’
‘No. I just started at the Münchener Post.’
‘Why did you leave the Bild?’
‘I had a better offer from the Post. But before I could quit, I was fired.’
‘Fired? Why?’
‘The publisher didn’t like my drawings.’
‘Where were you at the time of the bombing, between two fifteen and two thirty, day before yesterday?’
‘I was in the offices of the Post.’
Back in his office, Hermann looked over the case log so far and then added some notes.
‘So, what have you learned so far?’ said Willi, sounding not very interested.
‘Not much,’ said Hermann. He didn’t like telling Willi too much. He had caught the case and he wanted to close it himself. After a while, though, Hermann thought better of it; Willi might have some useful ideas. Something was off, as far as Hermann was concerned, and he couldn’t quite tell what it was. ‘There’s this guy, Maximilian Wolf, who worked for the paper drawing pictures. Except he was fired five days ago, just two days before the grenade attack.’
‘You think it was him?’ said Willi.
‘He has an alibi.’
‘Yeah?’
‘He was at the Post talking to the editors. It checks out.’
‘But you think he’s involved in some way.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So something’s not right?’ said Willi.
‘Well, you tell me. When I got to the hospital to have a look at the girl, she was still unconscious. And this guy, Wolf, was sitting by her bed drawing her picture. That’s weird, isn’t it? What kind of person does that?’
An artist does that, thought Willi. But he didn’t say it.
BARON VON PLOTTWIETZ
Maximilian had learned about the bombing from the wire in the Post newsroom. When he got to the hospital, Sophie was already in surgery. Maximilian met the gurney as they wheeled her into the intensive-care ward fourteen hours later. They tried to make him wait outside, but he wouldn’t leave her side, except to eat or to go to the toilet.
He was sitting by Sophie’s bed when Willi showed up.
Willi introduced himself.
‘I already talked to the police once,’ said Maximilian.
‘I know,’ said Willi. ‘If you don’t mind, though, I have a few more questions.’
‘Do you have any idea who did this?’ said Maximilian.
Willi said he didn’t. ‘Do you?’
‘I told the other cop I don’t. He thinks I did it.’
‘Right now I’m just trying to get the lay of the land,’ said Willi. ‘I’m very sorry to hear about Miss Auerbach. Is there any news from the doctors?’
‘They don’t tell me much,’ said Maximilian. ‘I’m not family, so they won’t talk to me.’
‘Does she have family?’
‘No,’ said Maximilian.
‘Let me see what I can find out,’ said Willi. He was back in a few minutes. ‘The doctor says she’s out of the woods. Her vital signs are good. There may be some brain damage. And there was damage to her eyes. They still don’t know whether she’ll be able to see. They say she’ll be in the hospital at least two more weeks, depending on what they find when she wakes up. It could be longer.’
‘They expect her to wake up?’
‘Yes. You were in the war, weren’t you?’
‘Who wasn’t?’ said Maximilian. ‘The Meuse.’
‘Ypres,’ said Willi.
‘I heard that was bad,’ said Maximilian.
‘I saw your drawings. In the paper,’ said Willi. ‘They’re good. Why’d they fire you?’
‘They didn’t like the drawings,’ said Maximilian. ‘Politically, I mean. Erwin liked them, but the publisher didn’t.’
‘Erwin?’
‘Erwin Czieslow. The editor.’
‘So, if you had to speculate, who would you say rolled that bomb through the door?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Look, Herr Wolf, your work tells me you see what’s going on around you. In fact, I wish I had your gift. Did you ever think of going into police work? It’s all about observation, you know. Anyway, if you’d be willing to speculate a little, I’d love to hear it. If not, OK too …’
‘Have you talked to von Plottwietz?’
‘The publisher?’
‘Yeah, him.’
‘You think he blew up his own paper?’
‘I’m not saying that. But he’s involved in radical politics in a big way. Who knows? He might tell you something.’
Baron Detlev von Plottwietz lived alone in a spacious apartment opposite the State Opera. Though in the middle of the city, the apartment was furnished as though it were a hunting lodge, with heavy, dark furniture and the heads of boar and deer hanging above the fireplace. Across the room, facing the fire, was a full-length portrait of von Plottwietz in formal regalia. He had a large silver medal pinned on a blue and white silk sash.
‘Virtus et Honus, virtue and honor,’ said von Plottwietz, coming into the room. ‘The Order of Merit.’
‘I see,’ said Willi. ‘Congratulations. And thank you for seeing me, Herr Baron.’
‘I assume you’re here about the bombing,’ said von Plottwietz.
‘Yes,’ said Willi. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ which was what you always said to start these interviews. ‘It must be difficult for you to lose Erwin Czieslow that way, and to have Sophie Auerbach so terribly injured.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Detlev. His face remained immobile. He motioned for Willi to take a seat and then sat down with the portrait above and behind him. ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘It really was quite terrible and unnecessary.’
‘I won’t take much of your time. You’ve probably had quite enough of policemen and our questions.’
‘Not at all,’ said Detlev with a tight smile. ‘You’re the first.’
‘Am I?’ said Willi, trying not to sound surprised. ‘Well, I’ll try to be quick. I really want to get your point of view on the entire affair and find out whether there’s anyone you can think of that might want to do such a thing.’
‘Well, it came completely out of the blue, a bolt of lightning. Terrible. Unimaginable.’
‘You said a moment ago, this attack was “terrible and unnecessary”. What did you mean by “unnecessary”?’
‘Well, it didn’t accomplish anything, did it? It won’t stop our getting the story out about who’s trying to destroy Germany and why they’re doing it. And how we’re going to annihilate them.’
‘So you intend to reopen the paper?’
‘Of course,’ said von Plottwietz. ‘And I guarantee you, we will be successful. Saving the Fatherland is my mission in life. A fair and honest German press is one of the indispensable means for saving the Fatherland and making it strong again. Getting the real truth out; disputing the phony crap the Bolsheviks print in their so-called newspapers.’
‘Who do you think might have bombed your offices, Herr Baron? It sounds as though you might have your suspicions.’
‘Suspicions? Well, Herr Detective, it seems obvious to me. When you get around to catching the perpetrators, I promise you they will be Jews, Bolsheviks, liberal-socialists – someone who doesn’t want the truth about the current national government to get out.’
‘So, not someone with a personal grudge. You would rule out any sort of personal attack?’
‘Personal attack? Nonsense.’
‘I see,’ said Willi. ‘I take it your newspaper is fully insured against events such as this.’
‘Naturally. My attorney tells me we’re fully covered. We will be up and printing again in no time.’
‘So the attack doesn’t affect you that much, personally, I mean.’
‘Of course it affects me …’
‘Could this have been a personal attack against one of your staff? Erwin Czieslow, for instance, or Sophie Auerbach, your star reporter, or Maximilian Wolf?’
‘Herr Wolf no longer works for the paper. Get your facts straight, Herr Detective.’ The baron was becoming impatient. ‘Wolf was fired before the attack occurred.’
‘Why was he fired, Herr Baron?’ Willi had taken out a small notebook and was making notes. This caused von Plottwietz to look around, as though there might be something going on behind him he needed to be careful about.
‘His drawings are terrible,’ he said. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘And you don’t suspect him of wanting revenge for being fired?’
‘He’s not man enough,’ said Plottwietz. ‘And Erwin Czieslow and Miss Auerbach were going to be terminated soon as well. Their work was highly unsatisfactory, unprofessional. They had become superfluous.’
‘Have you chosen their replacements already?’
‘I will edit the paper myself. And I’ll use writers who understand and can tell the hard German truth.’
‘I see,’ said Willi. ‘I see now why you seem so indifferent to Erwin Czieslow’s death and Sophie Auerbach’s injuries, as well as the suffering of the rest of your employees.’
Baron Detlev von Plottwietz stood up angrily. ‘This interview is over, Detective,’ he said. ‘Get out of my apartment.’
But Willi sat a moment longer, finishing his notes, speaking t
o himself as he wrote. ‘Indifferent … to death … tell … the … German … truth. Thank you for your time, Herr Baron. You have given me much to think about.’
DETECTIVE GEISMEIER
Back at his desk, Willi went through his notes. ‘I talked to von Plottwietz,’ he said to Hermann.
‘Really?’ said Hermann. He stopped what he was doing. ‘Why’d you do that?’
‘Well, it’s his newspaper that was bombed. To me that would seem like the place to start.’
‘Who’s going to bomb his own newspaper?’ said Hermann, trying to sound incredulous.
‘People burn down their own businesses all the time, for the insurance or other fraudulent purposes. All the time.’
‘Not the baron,’ said Hermann. ‘He was decorated by the King of Bavaria.’
‘Oh, so you know him?’ said Willi.
‘I know who he is,’ said Hermann. ‘I did my homework.’
Willi rummaged through folders on his desk to remind himself what else was going on.
‘So, what did you learn?’ said Hermann after a while.
‘About the baron? Nothing really,’ said Willi.
‘That’s what I figured,’ said Hermann, but he did not sound reassured.
‘I’ll be out for an hour or so,’ said Willi after a while.
‘Where are you going?’ said Hermann.
‘Another case,’ said Willi.
‘Which one?’ said Hermann. But Willi was already out the door.
Maximilian was sitting by Sophie’s bedside with a bowl of bouillon in his left hand and a spoon in his right. Sophie had a large cloth napkin across her chest. Her mouth opened slightly as Maximilian moved the spoon toward her. Willi watched from across the room for a moment. Her eyes shifted as Willi approached, causing Maximilian to turn to see who was there. He smiled at Willi. So, the news was good.
‘Good afternoon, Fräulein Auerbach. I am Detective Willi Geismeier. I’m glad to see you are improving.’ The bruises and cuts around her eyes were less angry than they had been. But her eyes were unfocused and half-closed.
‘She woke up this morning,’ said Maximilian.
‘That’s good,’ said Willi.
‘She’s very tired, not ready to talk yet. The doctors say she needs lots of rest.’ And, as if on cue, her eyes fluttered shut. Maximilian set the bowl aside and removed the napkin.
The Good Cop Page 4
